


hit the road

by littlemachines



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mechanics, Alternative Universe - Modern Setting, Background Alistair/Zevran Arainai, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Eventual Smut, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-06-19 00:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15498006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemachines/pseuds/littlemachines
Summary: Dorian sat for a moment, thinking about the broken motorcycle and the hot bleeding mechanic and his father’s idea of heaven and hell and the empty apartment he was about to drive back to. He recalled Felix’s words.Don’t pay hundreds of dollars to fix a bike you don’t know how to ride just to drive yourself off a cliff, metaphorical or otherwise, when things go to shit.A story about broken things and the journeys we make to heal and to love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love writing multichapter work. would love to finish one someday  
> but hey dragon age fandom i'm here fashionably late but predictable as fuck. i've been thinking about these two for months now and figured that a difficult summer is a good time to get writing again. here's an au i'm generally incredibly keen on with a pairing i think bioware robbed us off  
> title/lyrics from shotgun by george ezra  
> also big love 2 claire for keeping the cullrian fire burning for this many months  
> AND YA enjoy!!!! let me know what you think!!!!! i hope it doesn't suck?!??!?!  
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/reaperapologist) (v active)  
> [tumblr](http://www.akingdomorthis.tumblr.com) (v not)  
> p.s. i know jackshit about motorcycles if that wasn't obvious

_time flies by in the yellow and green / stick around and you'll see what i mean / there's a mountaintop that i'm dreaming of / if you need me you know where i'll be / i'll be riding shotgun underneath the hot sun / feeling like a someone_

* * *

“I told you so.”

“ _Oh_. He told me so,” Dorian announced with exaggerated theatrics to his empty car. His phone was attached to the dashboard and was multitasking an impressive feat. His Spotify playlist was paused (though it was mostly Mae’s music, some of which he loathed to admit he quite enjoyed) to allow Felix’s soft baritone to filter through the speakers, only interrupted by the default voice on his Google Maps app telling him to turn left in eighty yards. An evenly toned woman with a neutral accent was directing him God knows where through the backstreets of a neighbourhood he’d had no reason to visit before. Dorian had watched Bull with narrowed eyes as he’d used those ridiculous meaty fingers of his to stab the address into Dorian’s phone but even the calm voice of Siri or Alexa or whoever he knew he was, on a subconscious psychological level, more inclined to trust based on sound alone couldn’t stop him from considering the possibility that Bull was, in actual fact, pulling on his leg.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Dorian took the second left as instructed. “And pray tell, dear Felix, what you told me exactly. Was it words of wisdom as utterly unhelpful as the ones you just uttered?”

“I told you it was a bad idea,” Felix repeated but there was no bite to his words. He sounded amused. In the background, Dorian could hear noise, cutlery and cups and people. A coffee shop most likely. Felix had immersed himself in the student experience wholeheartedly since his father had loosened his loving but often too tight grip. His thesis drafts were often covered in coffee stains. “It’s not unhelpful advice. You’re just beyond help.”

Why Dorian ever thought calling Felix for comfort, he had yet, in his almost thirty years of living and over half of them actually _knowing_ the man, to figure out. He made a displeased sound. “You’re not supposed to say that. Good friends don’t say that.”

“Good friends also don’t sell their vulnerable friends a big metal death trap as a replacement for a healthy coping mechanism.”

“It’s retail therapy!”

“It’s a _broken_ motorcycle, Dorian. Not a new succulent to put on your windowsill.” Dorian winced at that, recalling his overcrowded windowsill. Felix carried on, ever the rational one. Absently, Dorian thought he had the kind of voice for a navigation app. “Good friends tell you to go see a therapist.”

“Bull is a therapist,” Dorian argued, weakly.

He could almost _hear_ Felix’s eyeroll in response. “That doesn’t count. He’s your friend.”

“And not a very good one, yes, we’ve established this.” Impatience coloured his tone. Siri-Alexa told him his destination was coming up on his right and he slowed his car. “Listen, I know this whole thing is…”

“Stupid?” Felix supplied.

“A tad reckless,” Dorian snapped, glaring at his phone as if Felix could see it. He probably could imagine it well enough. Their friendship had an almost psychic quality to it at times. “I _know_ everyone thinks I’ve gone out of my mind. But it’s been months since- since then.” If Felix heard the stumble in Dorian’s words, he was gracious enough not to point it out. Dorian pretended the pause was so he could focus on parallel parking. “I need to move on and that means change.”

“So change the colour of your curtains. Cut dairy out of your diet. Get a bloody tattoo on your arse!” Dorian laughed at the last one as he killed the engine on his car but Felix’s voice was earnest and a touch pleading. “Don’t pay hundreds of dollars to fix a bike you don’t know how to ride just to drive yourself off a cliff, metaphorical or otherwise, when things go to shit. You don’t need to do this.”

“It’s not a need, Felix. I _want_ to. Get this bike fixed, that is, not drive myself off a cliff. As much as I’d like to get out of grading this term’s papers, I’m doing quite alright, thank you very much,” Dorian said, trying his best to making his voice light and assuring. He’d never been the comforter in their relationship. For all his oral talents, he doubted anyone would want his voice in their phone’s system to direct them towards the nearest gas station or pharmacy. “It’s just a bike. If the repairs are extortionate, I’ll give up on it, how about that? I’d probably sell it off once it’s fixed anyway so think of it as a side project.”

Felix sighed, resigned. “Couldn’t you just get into gardening like a normal person?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” When Felix sighed again, this time softly, with fondness, Dorian knew he was forgiven.

Dorian grabbed his phone off the dashboard and switched Felix to handheld, pressing it between his shoulder and ear as he exited the car. He closed the door with his hip and double checked that his wallet was in his pants before surveying the street. Quiet neighbourhood, if a little grey, though not too far from the city centre if Google Maps by Bull’s hand could be trusted (yet to be seen) and the not-so distant sound of high street traffic he’d just about avoided upon Siri-Alexa’s wisdom was any indication. The mechanic’s shop was still a little further up the road so Dorian figured this was as good time as any to say goodbye. “Anyway, if Bull hasn’t led me on a wild goose chase then I’m near the place. I’ll call you later.”

“I’m having dinner with Dad tonight,” Felix reminded him. “But text me. Let me know how it goes.”

“Tell the old man I said hi.”

“Want me to tell him you bought a bike?”

Dorian couldn’t help but grin. “He knows I’ve done worse.”

Felix laughed, a sound untouched by time. Dorian’s smile softened and he was glad that Felix wasn’t able to see it because he would have poked gentle fun though it wasn’t hard to envision a similar expression on Felix’s face as he said, “Yeah, I suppose he does. Talk to you later, Dorian. Take care.”

“You too.” He pocketed his phone and quickened his pace. Without Felix to anchor him, Dorian’s curiosity drove him forward. It was hard to believe his best friend was a few years his junior, especially when he had, over the years, been most of Dorian’s impulse control.

Most. The broken motorcycle he’d purchased had been against Felix’s insistence, as was this trip to a mechanic who supposedly had magic hands.

“Is that a euphemism?” Dorian had asked suspiciously.

Bull had shrugged. “The Commander’s a good guy. Won’t rob you blind either.”

“The Commander?” Dorian had echoed before glaring at Bull. “Okay, now you’re just messing with me, aren’t you? That’s definitely a euphemism.”

Bull had chosen simply to ignore Dorian again. He was quite good at that.

And yet Dorian bought a broken vehicle off him and took his recommendation for a mechanic, trusting the address that Bull provided which had taken him to a part of the city he was entirely unfamiliar with. Felix’s jokes aside, his friendship with Bull was a mystery to the entire world, including themselves, and yet it was one Dorian would put money on. Quite literally, in this case.

The auto repair shop that occupied the end of the road was much smaller than Dorian had imagined anything Bull could duck into being. The block was christened with the letters ‘ORDER AUTO CARE’ painted where one would assume a big shiny sign would be hung. It only appeared big enough to hold two or three vehicles. A small business, Dorian concluded, from its lack of flair. One that was used to treating locals, it’s owner uninterested in advertising or expanding its market. An overambitious garage more than anything else but Dorian was in no position to scoff at it.

Taking a deep breath, he marched through the car shaped gap that he assumed acted as a constantly open doorway and ignored his own curiosity about what the owner did when the weather got colder (business surely booms in dangerous conditions but the doorway situation is impractical in the snow so do they close shop? Is that a liable business plan?)

Inside, the place was no bigger but no smaller either and it surprised him how much it could hold. The ceilings were higher than he’d envisioned but the lights were low, long bars that glowed fluorescent despite the persistent daylight outside but in a random pattern that suggested not all of them were working. A car was parked up, a small but impressive vintage model that didn’t suit the neighbourhood it had driven itself into but Dorian was no different. Near every inch of the walls were covered in something, tools and types of storage that no doubt held tools and paper. Not posters but post-it notes, medication subscriptions, notebook pages torn unevenly covered with surprisingly neat handwriting juxtaposed by grease marks and the author’s inability to stay in the lines as they listed groceries, phone numbers or reminders. It smelled, unsurprisingly, of oil and was warm, even with the entire garage shutters lifted. Dorian had already unbuttoned his shirt further upon leaving work but ran a finger under his collar as he peered around. From somewhere that Dorian couldn’t quite place, there was the sound of metal and movement, like the machine parts scattered in different stages of production buzzed with an untraceable energy even as they laid here because they were considered broken.

The place was also empty.

It took Dorian a moment in his state of sensory overload before he spotted a familiar motorbike shaped lump under a paint-stained, grease-stained sheet. A part of him felt indignant that his bike was being subjected to such treatment, hidden away like a body in a morgue. A more rational part of him that had the steady voice of Felix told him that if the motorcycle wasn’t tucked and covered, it would be at risk of receiving more damage. Another voice, smooth but booming, told him to stop stalling by talking to the split parts of his consciousness and get his pretty Vint butt in there already. Dorian frowned but steeled his shoulders. He _really_ didn’t like it when Bull was calling out his bullshit, even if it was all in his own head.

Of course Dorian only got two steps further into the shop before a series of events unfolded. It was hard to place what happened at what point when everything occurred in a few seconds but Dorian would, in the future, have plenty of time to consider the blur in slow motion. He would present it as the following: a strange noise (a low groan, muffled, on the line between human and unhuman) would come from the general direction where the handsome car sat immobile, startling him into stumbling back (no, he did _not_ let out any kind of undignified noise) but consequently, knocking some sort of tool from its elevated station with his elbow, jarring it painfully just as he heard _barking_ and after that, Dorian couldn’t quite place the order of events. There was a loud painful thud that had the car bouncing upwards accompanied by a very human _ah_ _fuck_ as a growling and yapping creature quite easily half Dorian’s size rounded the car to barrel towards him. Dorian’s feet, desperately backpedalling towards safety, tangled in some sort of wire that just _happened_ to be lying around and he fell back (so maybe he did _squeak_ a little), hard enough for the wind to be knocked out of him and on clutter that would definitely leave indents in his skin even through his clothes. A dog’s open jaw snapped just shy of his face and he squeezed his eyes shut just as a voice yelled, “Down, boy!” and the dog backed up, whining.

Dorian opened his eyes slowly and saw, under a broken light fixture, that a shadow had risen to full size. He was, however, not allowed a pathetic moment to catch his breath. Instead, the shadow moved towards him. With every step, the half-working, half-not fluorescent lights pieced together details of what was a decidedly human figure. A man, tall (though Dorian’s position on the floor may have been the fault of that), broad-shouldered and very, very blonde. Dorian watched, more dazed than he would have liked to admit, as a pale hand with dark fingertips ran comfortingly over the dog’s head as he passed, accompanied by a murmured, “Good boy. It’s okay. You can head back now.”

The dog, now that Dorian could look at it unblurred by motion, was a large, keen creature. Fawn-coloured by with a black mask and alert, pointed ears that relaxed at the instruction. His intelligent eyes that watched Dorian with the same suspicion and wariness he gave it. Much like with cars, Dorian was able to appreciate dogs without being able to name their origins, preferring the more subdued energy of a housecat himself.

And yet he had come here chasing an order for a motorcycle of all things. _Subdued energy_ , he thought, lying on his bruised backside, _my arse_.

It was only when the dog broke eye contact by turning back to trot towards his designated spot, hidden behind the car, that Dorian realised the shadow was over him and sufficiently illuminated by the light coming through the open garage door. A man who couldn’t have been much older than Dorian himself wore dull blue overalls, sleeves short to reveal decently muscular arms and unbuttoned enough for Dorian to make out a vest top underneath and the chain of a necklace tucked under it. He wore industrial boots, ugly but practical, and knelt beside Dorian now, those grease-tipped fingers brushing Dorian’s propped up knee with a touch so light it could have been imaginary. He had a handsome, angular face, a strong jaw peppered with a generous five o’clock shadow and a long nose, a pained pink across the bridge which probably explained the cursing earlier. His eyebrows were dark, indented in an expression of concern over soft eyes, wrinkled at the corners and weighed down by obvious sleepless nights but a deep, lovely brown. His mouth occupied Dorian’s attention for the longest because of the scar that pierced the top lip on the left side, creating a thin, white path through his stubble to stop at the edge of his lower cheek. The observation was made with some difficulty and Dorian frowned as he squinted until he realised the reason he couldn’t quite focus on the scar was because the man was talking.

“Christ. Are you alright?”

His voice was low, gravelly but not clumsy or without harmony, the kind that probably sounded nice when he hummed. Another contender for narrating directions. Dorian entertained the thought that he might have hit his head. Hot mechanics only happened in porn.

Somehow, his mouth managed to answer semi-coherently. “I- yes, I think so.”

The man didn’t withhold his expressions and his relief softened the stress around his eyes slightly. His mouth curled up, favouring one side. Up close, Dorian could see how his hair, _so very blonde_ , was a nest of maintained curls but not immune to the elements. A light sheen of sweat glinted off the pale, lightly freckled skin and as a result, a rebellious curl fell onto his forehead. He settled back into a squat that strained the material of his coveralls at his thighs and Dorian’s mouth went dry.

There was wry amusement in his tone when he said, “That’s good. I don’t have much on hand to fix human parts.”

It took Dorian a second to realise that he was being _laughed at_ but all he could do was gape in response. Maybe he hit his head harder than he thought. Hot mechanics definitely only happened in porn or in heaven. In a distant muffled part of his mind, Dorian entertained the idea that heaven was indeed a harem of uniformed men on their knees for him and how it was a shame that he was dead and thus, unable to rub it in his father’s face.

But then the man’s expression shifted back into one of mild worry and he reached out to touch Dorian, arm around his back to curl a hand at Dorian’s side as he lifted Dorian to his feet. His grip was firm enough for Dorian to come back to reality. Big hands, calloused fingers, warm to touch. Dorian felt slightly unstead and without thinking, he blurted out, “Do you just lie in wait with your beast dog to attack anyone who trespasses?”

The man stilled, his frown deepening. “You could have announced yourself.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “With what? A herald?”

“Or a knock,” the man grumbled.

Dorian levelled him with the most incredulous look he could muster. “You have _no door_!”

The man mirrored his gaze. “It’s a garage!”

It was perhaps one of the most ridiculous arguments Dorian had ever partook in and he’d been in many and had created twice as many. After a moment of stubborn glowering at each other, Dorian realised that he was still leaning on the man. He tried not to think about how unaffected he was by Dorian’s weight (he was also warm all over, even through his clothes.) Instead, Dorian straightened his back, stepping out of the man’s hands with his shoulders knocked back as if he hadn’t been made to eat the floor by a dog just moments earlier. The distance, small but enough, helped clear the remaining fog in Dorian’s head, making him feel a little more like himself. After all, he’d been in more compromising positions with handsomer men before. “What were you even doing back there?”

The man blinked. “Fixing a car.” When Dorian didn’t reply, momentarily stumped, the man added, “Because this is a garage.”

 _Is he_ sassing _me?_ Out loud, Dorian asked, “Do you argue about definitions with all your customers?”

At that, the other man had the good graces to look at least somewhat sheepish. He lifted a hand (the one that had just been at Dorian’s waist) to rub at the back of his neck. “Ah, no. Sorry. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Positively peachy.” He spoke with mock cheer, preoccupied with dusting down his trousers. “Now, shall we get down to business? I believe you have my bike.”

“Your bike?”

Dorian looked up at the man’s confused expression and wondered if Bull had indeed tricked him. He gestured towards the motorbike shaped lump in the corner. “My motorcycle, yes.”

“You…” The man trailed off disbelievingly. “That’s yours.”

It wasn’t a question. Dorian squinted at the man, at his handsome nose that looked like it had been sunburnt. “Did you knock your head back there? I did hear a rather loud bump.”

“You’re the Iron Bull’s friend?”

“Yes, Dorian Pavus, unfortunately. Unfortunately on the friendship with Bull part, not on who I am. I am rather fond of myself on the best of days.” When the man merely continued to stare at him, Dorian prompted him impatiently. “He mentioned me then?”

“I expected you to be…” Another trailing sentence. Almost helplessly, he finished it with, “bigger.”

Dorian huffed, straightening up with as much dignity as he could muster. “Well, I could say the same about-” He broke off, staring as the man bent down to pick up the tool Dorian had knocked off earlier, revealing that his coveralls strained _everywhere_. Lamely, he said, “your workspace.”

“It’s big enough.” His tone was defensive and Dorian wondered if he’d caused serious offense, watching the back of the man as he headed towards where what Dorian assumed was his bike was stationed. Then, he looked back over his shoulder with an eyebrow raised. “You’ve just played pinball in it which is why it feels smaller.”

 _He_ is _sassing me._ Dorian followed him. The dog’s ears perked up at their movement but he didn’t otherwise move, curled up at the front of the car by a box of tools.

“Do you have a name?” At the random question, the man stiffened, gaze suspicious. Dorian rolled his eyes. “No need to look at me like that, my good man. I’m not going to use it to gain compensation or whatever nefarious scheme you imagine I’m capable of. You know who I am.”

He muttered something that sounded like _I’m not sure I do_ but spoke clearly before Dorian could comment. “Cullen Rutherford.”

“Cullen Rutherford.” Dorian repeated it for no other reason except to weigh it on his tongue. Masculine and a little bit of a mouthful. His brain was elsewhere.

“Bull didn’t tell you my name?”

Dorian laughed a short note but it wasn’t malicious. “Bull also didn’t tell me the motorcycle I was purchasing was potentially beyond fixing. He doesn’t talk as much as he likes to make you think.”

Cullen didn’t seem to have a reply to that. Instead, he waited until Dorian came to a stop across from him with Dorian’s reason for being here between them. Only then did Cullen lift the sheet to reveal the motorbike underneath.

Like dogs. Dorian didn’t have the range of vocabulary to accurately describe the motorcycle that he had impulsively bought from Bull. The Iron Bull, a trained psychiatrist and enthusiastic pub-crawler, had a wealth of friends that often found themselves emptying their hands to him, at loss with their possessions but having faith that Bull would find them new homes. From niche European capitals trapped in snow globes as birthday gifts to phones abandoned to upgrades, Bull connected the strangest of people. Cullen and Dorian were just a single string in Bull’s cat’s cradle of connections. But the string held up an entire motorcycle, broken or otherwise.

For starters, it was red. The paint job had seen better days but Dorian predicted it was the only fault of it that would be easily rectified. The imaginations of those he told about the purchase blew the vehicle out of proportion but it was a humble machine, not terribly bulky. It had appeared, at first glance, to not be so terribly lacking but between gaps that were not supposed to exist, there were missing screws and springs and some vital part of the engine, according to Cullen, who listed the faults with a tone that bordered on awe. Dorian wasn’t sure if it was the motorcycle itself or the extent of its injuries that had Cullen inspired but he gave the other man a withering look anyway.

Cullen did not miss it. He closed his mouth then opened it again, not entirely undeterred. “I’m still waiting on the full extent of her damage-”

“Oh, no. None of that.”

“Excuse me?”

“That gendering vehicles business. I am not riding her. It’s an it.” Dorian considered his words. “Or him. I would ride a him.”

There was a pause long enough for Dorian to realise that the shop could be completely noiseless and the earlier sounds of tinkering must have been Cullen under the car. They were silent now. Then Cullen shifted, a hand going up to the back of his neck again, and he said, “Well, it’s not going anywhere for a while.”

 _Ah_. Uncomfortable non-acknowledgement. Cullen carried on speaking but Dorian’s focus was on his hands and their respective journeys. The one at the back of his neck slid down and across the seat, the other’s fingertips tracing over the logo of the motorcycle with a gentle, reverent quality. Dorian wondered, as his gut turned, if he would ever not feel sick at even the quietest of judgements, ones that pretended he had not spoken at all, that he could not possibly exist even as he was _right there_.

Dorian Pavus had never done well at being invisible.

He tuned back in just as Cullen was digging through his pocket to fish out a scrap piece of paper to accompany the pen he extended towards Dorian over the bike’s magnificent corpse. Cullen gave no indication that he knew Dorian hadn’t been listening. “If you leave your number, I can give you a call when I know a bit more of what I’m dealing with and we can go from there.”

Number and name scrawled onto the back of a receipt (for dog food), Dorian watched as Cullen found an empty spot on the nearest wall to stick it. Dorian’s writing, in comparison, was a barely legible academic scrawl that drove his students nuts. He speculated, briefly, about the writing that dominated the wall, a pretty slanting cursive and if it was Cullen’s at all, so out of character for the burly mechanic. There was no ring on his finger but maybe he didn’t like to wear it while working or maybe he had a girlfriend who scribed everything. It seemed needlessly excessive but Dorian had seen straight men be anal about worse.

“So,” Dorian said, reaching for his wallet as they moved out towards the not-door open door of the building, “how much is this – what do you call it? Consultation? – costing me?”

Cullen crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back on the back of the car he was fixing. Dorian tried not to stare, at the flex of his thighs or the wealth of his biceps. Not heaven but hell, Dorian decided. His father was right and wrong all at once. The torment was not what Dorian had been warned of. It took Cullen’s answer for Dorian to remember he had asked a question at all. “Nothing yet. Once I know the full details then we can talk about costs. Besides, I owe Bull.”

Most people did. “Fair enough.” Dorian shuffled unsurely on the spot but that was a dismissal, if he had ever heard one. He nodded a goodbye and turned away, pocketing his hands to give them something to do as he exited the threshold of the shop. Outside, the sun was deepening in hue, welcoming the end of the day.

And so true to his character, Dorian couldn’t resist a final look back. Cullen wasn’t watching him but his dog who had trotted back over to his owner’s side. One hand was running over the dog’s head and the other held a tissue to his own nose. Dorian stilled when he saw it come away with blood, the only indication beside the redness on his face that Cullen had hurt himself when Dorian had entered the garage. Then Cullen turned towards him again, noticing his still figure silhouetted by the sunset casting a long shadow on the eerie interior of the auto repair shop. Awkward embarrassment made Dorian feel unsettled, like he had just witnessed something he shouldn’t have. He left hastily.

In his car, Dorian sat for a moment, thinking about the broken motorcycle and the hot bleeding mechanic and his father’s idea of heaven and hell and the empty apartment he was about to drive back to. He recalled Felix’s words. _Don’t pay hundreds of dollars to fix a bike you don’t know how to ride just to drive yourself off a cliff, metaphorical or otherwise, when things go to shit._

He looked down at his white shirt, now covered in grease stains. Fingerprints where Cullen had pressed his hands to help him to his feet. Then he sighed as he turned the key to his car. He needed a shower for too many reasons, some he was now grown up enough to feel ashamed about.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back and i wrote this entire chapter whilst listening to the mamma mia here we go again soundtrack  
> just a silly lil note: i figured out what kinda dog i wanted cullen's to be and went back and made some minor changes in the first chapter so its consistent, in case you're confused because you remembered him differently. i also used a fake UK number for cullen even though i genuinely don't know where i envision this taking place, if me using both arse and ass wasn't indication enough lol  
> anywho i feel like this is a really transitional chapter but hopefully you all still enjoy!! as always, let me know what you guys think!!!  
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/reaperapologist)  
> [tumblr](http://www.akingdomorthis.tumblr.com)  
> 

The thing about Bull was that, unless you were scheduled specifically to speak to him about your feelings, he was not an easy man to pin down. Dorian had opted instead to text Felix a brief overview about meeting Cullen Rutherford (to which Felix replied ‘Dorian. Do NOT even think about it.’) and settle back into the monotonous rhythm of public transit, a life trapped between pages of research and coffee cups. It was an awkward time in the semester, the last of his grading sent out and little to distract him. The motorcycle had been bought specifically to fill that space, something that wasn’t the half-empty state of his apartment or the clutter of his office where students came to test his patience when the term got tough. Instead, with the bike across town under a sheet covered in grease and paint and no new texts on the state of it, Dorian had more time to stare at his online banking account and wonder if he had truly gone out of his mind.

By the time the weekend rolled round, Dorian had gotten so sick at staring between his phone and the cold right side of his bed every morning and every night that he rearranged his wardrobe to find something that _didn’t_ make him look like a college professor (of course, his workwear was stylish but workwear, nonetheless), threw it on and marched out of his house with his head held high.

It was by pure chance that Bull was in Haven when Dorian ducked into it.

Bull’s back was to the door but there was no mistaking the expanse of his shoulders that could rival any of the tables in the bar. Or the long dark hair he swept chaotically into a bun – today, he had left most of it open and the rest split into two buns and he was just about terrifying and handsome enough that it didn’t look ridiculous. Even with his back to Dorian, Dorian knew how his mouth shaped around his loud laughter, the way his eyes closed as it boomed – the left was violently scarred and sightless – and how his pointed nose wrinkled with every gulp of a concoction of a drink that he refused to give the ingredients of but every bartender he talked to (see: flirted with) managed to make no matter the place.

Bull didn’t see Dorian’s approach but his best friend Krem, who sat across from Bull and in clear sight of Dorian’s fury, stopped mid-laughter to simply nod at Dorian with a sympathetic smile and rise to his feet. He clapped Bull’s shoulder in passing and before Bull could protest, Dorian dropped into the seat Krem had vacated.

“You bastard.”

To Bull’s credit, he didn’t even blink. He took a swig of his drink, sighed deeply and said, “What’d I do now?”

“You didn’t tell me he was hot!”

Bull gestured at Krem, signalling for a drink, before turning back towards Dorian. His expression shifted between distracted confusion to understanding. “Who- oh. Commander? Yeah.” He frowned. “Did the nickname not give it away?”

“Not even remotely,” Dorian hissed.

Bull laughed at Dorian’s pout. “Did you make an ass out of yourself, Dorian?”

“No!” He spoke too quickly. Bull scoffed. Dorian regretted not getting a drink himself before sitting down, if only to give his body something to do that wasn’t squirm under Bull’s knowing gaze. Instead, he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I would have just liked a warning, that’s all. About that and of course, the other unfortunate aspect of his personality. A tragic waste.”

Bull raised an eyebrow, inquiring, over a swig of his drink.

“He seems a tad homophobic.”

Bull responded by spitting his mouthful onto Dorian.

“Bull!” Dorian slapped his arm (though it probably hurt him more than it hurt Bull.) Whatever Bull was drinking, he hoped it didn’t stain impossibly. He _liked_ this shirt. “You asshole.”

Bull hit his chest with his fist and said, between coughs, “Homophobic? What’d he do?”

“Nothing! He was just… well, a very heterosexual man.” He nodded gratefully at Krem who slid him his drink before disappearing again, always knowing just the right time to return to a conversation. Dorian watched Krem leave (he was a handsome man and _goddamn has it really been that long since I’ve had sex_ ) until Bull cleared his throat pointedly. Tearing his eyes away, he elaborated. “I thought they made naming transportation after women illegal.”

“He named your bike?”

“He called it a she.”

Bull sounded disbelieving. “And that made you think he’s straight.”

“He _is_ straight. Have you seen him? He looks like he models knitwear in his spare time. I bet his girlfriend looks like she could be his sister.”

Now it was Bull’s turn to hit Dorian and it most definitely hurt Dorian more than it hurt Bull. Dorian glared fiercely at the man but he was unmoved. No one personified a block of concrete quite like the Iron Bull. “How out of practice is your gaydar, Dorian? Cullen’s not straight.”

Dorian blinked. “He’s gay?”

“Bisexual, I think.” Bull shrugged. “Never asked him to tick any boxes.”

Dorian felt a little bit like how he had being knocked to the ground by an overlarge dog. “He’s not straight.”

“That’s what I said. Keep up. Think he has a sister though. Two, actually. So watch it.”

“It’s just… he seemed off. Like he didn’t particularly care for me.”

“Oh, mystery solved.” Bull’s tone was flat. “That’s because you’re a piece of shit, Dorian.”

Dorian winced. “I suppose I didn’t make the best impression.”

“Dorian, what’d you do?”

“His dog jumped me!”

Bull didn’t even bother to dignify him with an answer. For a short while, they simply sat and drank. Haven was a small bar, dimly lit and every time Dorian came here, he complained heartily about the piss poor choice of drinks. But it was gay-friendly, Bull’s friends (dubbed as the ‘Chargers’ since the group’s conception) constantly occupied a corner and there was always singing which Dorian only pretended half-heartedly he didn’t like hearing. They could hear a song now, delicate guitar strings plucked between glasses clinking and Krem’s laughter that carried across the room. A woman called Maryden, who often performed improvised pieces about the occupants in the bar, now sang about a hero with one hand. It was a melancholy piece.

Bull was the one who broke the silence. “So you have plans for tonight?”

Dorian resisted the urge to curse. Bull was skilled at many things but his ability to turn simple perceptions into questions that prompted psychoanalysis disguised as regular conversation was particularly impressive and an absolute mindfuck. Dorian had almost forgotten why he had left his apartment in the first place. “To get positively plastered, yes.”

“How are you?” Before Dorian could even _think_ of deflecting, Bull grabbed Dorian’s drink from his grasp and held it easily out of his reach.

“Bull, don’t- oh, for God’s sake-” Dorian broke off, shaking his head and sitting back with a sigh. “Work is fine. Felix is fine. My apartment could use a reshuffling, I suppose. Everything is fine. Peachy. Really. Please give me my drink back.”

“I asked how are _you_ , not for your to-do list.”

Dorian kept his tone mild. “Don’t say Felix is on my to-do list. That’s rude. He’s my best friend.”

“ _Dorian_.”

“ _Bull_.” Dorian opted to swipe Bull’s drink and Bull watched as he took an ambitious gulp before choking. “Good God, Bull, seriously, how on earth do you drink this monstrosity?”

Bull sighed but didn’t exhibit any discomfort holding Dorian’s drink in the air. Unsure, a waitress wandered their way before accidentally making eye contact with Dorian and circling back. “I thought you were trying to be a new you, what with the motorcycle and everything.”

“Well, the _broken_ motorcycle you sold me is at the mechanic along with my new more agreeable personality. Please allow two to five working days for a response to your request.” When Bull merely stared him down, Dorian exhaled through his nose. “No, of course not, two to five days is totally unrealistic.”

“A little optimistic, sure,” Bull conceded. “Did Cullen not give you an estimate?”

“Not yet. I suppose that’s an indication of the state of the thing. Maybe I’ll never get it back.” Dorian snorted humourlessly. “All this time I’ve been defending the mere idea of it and it’s a trashed piece of motherfucking metal.”

Bull lowered his arm and his voice. “It’s not beyond fixing.”

“What if it is? What if that’s it?” They weren’t talking about the motorcycle anymore. “What if we pretended objects were sentient and it had feelings on this matter? Don’t you think it would be bloody tired of being bashed about? Maybe it doesn’t want to be fixed just for some poor sod to stick their arse on it just to have a short run for fun and go and break it again. The poor sod is me, by the way. I don’t even know how to drive a fucking motorcycle!”

“Dorian-”

Dorian interrupted Bull with his gaze, unwavering and clear even as his voice struggled not to tremble or crack, like a grey sky above a parched earth. Begging for rain. “If you’re so convinced this stupid bike is a cry for help after- after everything then why did you let me have it, Bull?”

Bull pushed Dorian’s glass back towards him. When Dorian didn’t lower his gaze, Bull took his own drink out of Dorian’s hard grip, gentle but firm. That was Bull’s speciality. It was what made him a good therapist but an even better friend. “Because I don’t think it’s a cry for a help. I think it’s a bike, Dorian. It’s something to do. If you can fix it, great. If you can’t, well, screw it. Paint it gold, stick it on a pedestal and put it in the biggest empty spot in your apartment. It can mean something, it can mean jackshit. It’s yours.” When he spoke, it was with a fondness that Dorian couldn’t remember ever deserving. “Besides, I’m your friend, not your mom. If you want a motorbike, who am I to stop you?”

Dorian didn’t answer for fear of his voice breaking but he smiled, shaky but grateful. When he wrapped his hands around his glass once again, Bull raised his own and said, “To what’s yours.”

Dorian pressed his glass to Bull’s. On the other side of the bar, the Chargers began drunkenly and terribly singing along with Maryden, now a song about a commander of armies losing his clothes in a card game and having to run through his barracks bare-arsed.

Only when Bull had knocked back his drink, draining and slamming the glass down, did he announce, “Cullen’s single, just to let you know.”

This time, Dorian was the one to choke. Bull hit him too hard on the back. Krem mooned half the bar and it shook with the laughter of loud men.

*

Dorian was not a fan of waking up with a mouth that tasted like ass – or at least, not if it didn’t involve a handsome man sat on his face. He was woken by the sun between the gap in his curtains and his phone, buzzing, against his middle where he had dropped it when he fell asleep.

Not a call but a text from an unknown number. Dorian squinted down at his phone, chin pressed against his chest. It took him a minute to read it.

[+44 7700 900094, 10:53] _Hi. It’s Cullen Rutherford from Order Auto Care. I have more information regarding your motorcycle. If you’re able to come by the shop this afternoon, we can discuss the repairs, an estimate, etc. Let me know. Regards, C._

It took him another minute to even comprehend it. It was practical and without flourish but the ‘regards’ was a nice touch. Perfect grammar and spelling which Dorian appreciated. He wondered if Cullen had to wipe his hands before picking up his phone and if he struggled with it because of the size of his fingers. For all Dorian had forgotten from the night before, he now remembered Bull’s words. _Cullen’s not straight_.

It was just past lunch time. Dorian saved Cullen’s number to his contacts and, too hungover to even consider playing coy with his _mechanic_ , he replied a simple affirmative and tossed his phone aside. The other side of his bed was misleadingly mussed from his lonesome drunken tumbling into it but he didn’t have the time to linger on the thought.

Detangling his legs from his bedsheets, Dorian stumbled to the bathroom to clean himself up. His reflection looked a little washed out and his hair was ruffled but otherwise, he had been in worst states after a night out. His head, however…

After he had showered, brushed his teeth (twice) and had breakfast for lunch, consisting of some painkillers and whatever in his fridge he could fry, Dorian felt significantly better. He resisted the urge to call up Bull and demand to know the details of the night that still alluded him (he may have prepositioned Krem more than once.)

Instead, he dropped his dressing gown at the doorway of his bedroom and began his indulgent ritual of self-care. Eyes lined, moustache curled and hair styled, he walked through delicate spritzes of his favourite aftershave, pacing in front of his wardrobe in nothing but his jewellery. He inspected its contents as if he hadn’t only just rearranged it the day before settling on an outfit, only to change it three times before he was satisfied.

He settled with a button-up shirt (short sleeved, printed and, more importantly, dark enough to hide any stains), washed-out jeans that were frayed at the hems and, after a self-conscious stare-down with himself, a black leather jacket he hadn’t worn in years. It still fit. As did the jeans, quite nicely, over his butt.

He never did reply to Felix’s text.

Once again, Dorian drove himself to the mechanic’s garage. It was a lonelier affair without Siri-Alexa and Felix but he remembered the way well enough and didn’t want to disturb Felix during his studies, especially if it meant his friend would only nag him about the efforts he was making when visiting a _mechanic_ , of all things. Impulse control was necessary but not always welcome. Hangover withstanding, Dorian was trying instead to focus on what Bull told him. Not (just) the part about Cullen not being straight but about the bike, what it meant and what it didn’t have to.

This time, Dorian parked close enough to see the garage shutters were up and hear the dog announcing his arrival.

Still, upon entering, he said, “Knock, knock.”

The dog was as impressively large as Dorian remembered, just as the shop was as small and neatly cluttered. Dorian proceeded with caution, palms raised. “Yes, it’s me again. The villain. Hello to you too, you terrifying creature.”

“Are you this rude to all dogs or is mine just special?”

Dorian looked over at the direction of the voice. Cullen was walking his way, his tone matching the amused smile he gave Dorian. It was warmer out, enough for Dorian to second guess his jacket and Cullen to be stripped down to a white vest top, the arms of the top half of his coveralls tied around his waist like a teenager’s jacket. He looked like a test from God.

“Rude? It was a compliment.” Dorian gestured at the dog. “He’s practically a war hound. I think he may have given me a concussion upon our first meeting.”

Cullen gave him a wry look. “You look fine.”

“Well, don’t let that fool you. I look better than most in the pits of it all.” Hesitantly, Dorian added, “You don’t seem too worse for wear yourself.”

Cullen looked unsure by the statement, his hand raising to rub at his nose as if he needed a physical reminder that he’d been hurt at all. “I’m fine.”

Dorian nodded, seeing no point arguing with him. “I’m glad to hear it.” At that, the dog whined and Dorian glared at him. “Oh, hush you. I’m trying to be genuine here. No need to play lie detector.”

At Dorian’s scowl, Cullen laughed, reaching down to ruffle the dog’s ears. “It’s okay, boy. No casualties this time.”

“Well, the night’s still young,” Dorian said cheerfully.

The dog growled and Cullen said, “Lion,” sternly. At that, the creature eased, accepting a petting as a reward. Dorian wished all reconciliations were that gratifying.

“Huh. An interesting name for a dog.”

“He’s got the soul of a cat sometimes. Wish he smelled more like one too.” Cullen squatted down beside the dog, unable to keep the fondness from his tone as he cradled the creature’s dark face. “He’s lion-hearted. Always been a protective thing, even when he was the size of my hand.”

Almost distantly, Dorian said, “Of course.”

Cullen looked up at him quizzically. “You’re not a dog person?”

“Not really. I had a pet snake as a child and I got a kick out of terrifying other children with it” – Cullen gave him a sharp look, a weird mixture of horrified and fascinated – “and cats can be quite… cute. But dogs…” He eyed Lion warily. “I’ve not had much experience with them, I suppose.”

“Lion’s incredibly well trained. Aren’t you, boy?” Lion barked an affirmative. “He’s a Great Dane so he’s a gentle giant really and friendly as anything. He’s just got a protective streak in him.”

“I’ve seen that,” Dorian said dryly. Cullen didn’t seem to hear.

“Here.” Cullen gestured him down and awkwardly, Dorian squatted beside the man and his dog. Lion watched him with those dark, intelligent eyes. “Be a good boy.”

It took Dorian a moment to realise that Cullen, tone stern but gentle, wasn’t talking to him. He willed himself not to flush.

Cullen then looked at him, gaze earnest. “You can stroke if you like.”

 _Oh, for the love of God_ \- Dorian lifted his hand, perhaps too quickly, to hide the direction his mind was taking him. Lion growled. He was a menacingly large creature and Dorian snatched his hand back, embarrassed by the rejection.

Cullen was not off-put at all. He ran a hand soothingly over the dog until the growling ceased. “Easy does it.” Dorian wasn’t sure who he was talking to this time. “He’s just a little suspicious.”

“Him and I both,” Dorian mumbled under his breath. This time, Cullen heard and he laughed quietly. A rough sound but not unkind.

“Take it slow. Reach out slowly. Let him see your hand as a peace offering.” Cullen demonstrated as he spoke. The hand that wasn’t already stroking Lion was held stationary in the line of sight of the dog. Lion inspected it before butting his nose against it. Cullen gave him a loving rub with it. “Let him trust you.”

A sarcastic response sat on his tongue but Dorian swallowed down the sourness. He did as he was told, lifting his hand slowly with his eyes remaining trained on Lion. He watched, breath held, as Lion’s gaze shifted to his hand. Then a tentative push of his nose, wet under Dorian’s fingers. Dorian chuckled despite himself, a breathless sound, as the dog nuzzled against his hand. Expectant. He had never thought black eyes could be so soft but when Lion looked at him again, Dorian saw hesitance but curiosity in their depths. Dorian ran his hand over his fawny coat, brushing behind softening ears. When his fingers bumped against Cullen’s, Cullen didn’t snatch his hand away. Dorian looked at him and his expression was proud and pink, high in his cheeks, as if Lion winning over Dorian was a personal victory for him. Maybe it was.

“He trusts that easily?”

Cullen shrugged, still smiling. “Maybe he’s just a good judge of character.”

In a strange turn of events, Dorian was at a loss on what to say. He could hear his heartbeat in his chest and spoke over it in case impossibly Cullen could hear it too. “So how’s the fixing-up going?”

Like a light going out. Cullen’s expression sobered and Dorian wished, as he often had in the course of his life, that he could snatch his words back from where they hung in the air, even if the words were mundane, ones that wouldn’t hurt for his hands to grab. All he could do was watch Cullen rise to his feet and follow reluctantly. “Slowly,” Cullen answered eventually. He sighed. “Bull’s friend did get back to me with a list of its problems but it’s extensive, to say the least.”

Dorian deflated a little. “Can it not be fixed then?”

Cullen looked over at him and said, almost hurriedly, “I didn’t say that.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a habit, Dorian noticed, that he seemed to do when he was feeling awkward or maybe nervous. “Finding parts that fit the model is probably going to be the biggest hurdle. For that reason, among others, it’s also going to take a little longer than I thought.” When he looked at Dorian again, his smile was hesitant but sincere. “I can’t make any promises but I’ll try my best.”

Maybe Dorian hadn’t truly regained his breath. When he said, “thank you,” it was quiet. But he meant it.

Cullen stared back at him then turned away but Dorian was close enough to see how his ears turned red at the tips. It was awfully endearing. Gruffly, he said, “It’s just my job.”

Dorian smiled before he realised this was as good an opportunity as any. He cleared his throat. “It’s not your job to put up with my piss poor attitude and I fear I made… a less than favourable first impression.” He took a deep breath before continuing, “I actually came to apologise. So I’m sorry. I’ll entrust in your judgement on all matters mechanical and… try to stay out of your way.”

Cullen looked like he didn’t know what to say. Then he shook his head. “You don’t need to do that. Stay out of my way, I mean. It’s your bike, you can drop in any time to see how it’s coming along. Especially if you’re in it for the long haul.”

When he smiled, it was lopsided and boyish. Cullen Rutherford was a dangerous man.

“Oh. Well. Alright.” Dorian’s mouth moved on its own accord. “I’ll try to find the time, then.”

Another light went out. Cullen’s expression shuttered but he was turning away before Dorian could catch what he had missed and what it was that he had said. He watched Cullen head back over to the work table he had been at when Dorian had arrived and tinker. Cullen’s hands were cleaner today, scrubbed, and they made distracted movements. “It’s an open offer. Whenever you’re not busy…”

“Teaching,” Dorian supplied, hopeful to regain Cullen’s attention. “I’m a professor. Currently bridging the gap between the sciences and the humanities. Philosophy of science best describes it, I suppose.”

Cullen put down the tools in his hands and looked at him again. “Can I ask a question?”

“By all means.”

“What’s a philosophy professor doing with a run down but relatively rare motorcycle?”

Dorian tried and failed to not sound insulted. “Do I not look the type?”

Cullen sized him up, from his hair that was not entirely immune to the elements either to his shoes, and Dorian tried not to preen. After all, he _had_ dressed for this.

“Maybe,” Cullen said in a tone Dorian couldn’t quite decipher, “if it was a regular motorcycle. This is the kind of stuff bike nut’s care about.”

“And I don’t look like a bike nut.”

“No, not a bike nut.” Dorian watched Cullen’s teeth catch his bottom lip, fighting a smile his eyes made no effort to hide, and cursed Bull _again_.

Dorian sighed melodramatically. “Mid-life crisis?”

“You can’t even be thirty.”

 _That_ pleased Dorian. “Ha! Nearing thirty-two.”

“A bit of a random birthday gift to yourself then.” Dorian braced himself for an interrogation but Cullen simply asked, “How long do I have to fix it?”

It took a moment for Dorian to realise what the question actually meant. “Just over a month.” Cullen whistled through his teeth and the sound made Dorian shiver, even in the heat. He added, for good measure, “But there’s no time limit. It isn’t actually for my birthday.”

“No,” Cullen said firmly. He looked over at the motorcycle hidden by the sheet as if he could see more than its broken parts shrouded by white. When he caught Dorian’s gaze again, there was a familiar stubbornness in it and a promise in his words. “I’ll get it done.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait take a chapter that is 2000 words over my self prescribed average chapter word count as an apology  
> being real here i've never changed a tyre in my life so excuse any mistakes (on that and also any typos too lol)  
> as always, let me know what you think and enjoy!!!  
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/reaperapologist)  
> [tumblr](http://www.akingdomorthis.tumblr.com)  
> 

[Cullen Rutherford, 16:47] _If you go by Fade’s, don’t let Sera take my order please._

[Cullen Rutherford, 16:50] _She put ketchup in my jam doughnut last time._

[Cullen Rutherford, 16:51] _Sorry I forgot yohgui b[](https://imgbb.com/)_

[Cullen Rutherford, 16:59] _SORRY that was Lion!_

[Cullen Rutherford, 16:59] _I forgot you were in a meeting. Sorry_

[Dorian Pavus, 17:00] _No let him speak_

“You have a more pressing matter to attend to, Professor Pavus?”

Dorian looked up from his phone to meet the unimpressed gaze of the head of the faculty. Vivienne was a striking and ruthless woman and Dorian was usually careful not to get on her bad side, if only because it was more trouble than it was worth. Now, he smiled sheepishly at her raised brow.

“Apologies, Vivienne,” he said breezily. “My mechanic.”

“Your car is broken?”

Dorian thanked his own lucky stars that he’d taken to commuting to work some time ago. Still, he couldn’t outright lie to his superior so he opted with a mumbled, “Something like that.”

Vivienne’s eyes narrowed but the meeting was more or less done and even her terrifying will could not stop the sound of shuffling papers and scraped chairs. To avoid being cornered by her, Dorian sprinted to catch up with Dagna, a highly impressive doctorate student who had recently begun teaching Archaeology, only stopping to half-apologise for knocking into Classics and Ancient Civilisations professor Solas. Having successfully entrapped Dagna into a conversation about her latest project on ancient weapons, he steered her out of the building by her elbow, partly to control a clean getaway from Vivienne but also because when Dagna started talking, she was often too distracted to do more than put one foot in front of the other. They made it out without casualty. Dorian dug up his phone.

[Cullen Rutherford, 17:01] _Ha ha._

[Cullen Rutherford, 17:08] _So, doughnuts?_

Dorian could imagine his expression, hopeful and boyish. One of the things he’d learnt about Cullen Rutherford in the two weeks since Cullen had decided he would fix Dorian’s bike under an unnecessary time limit was that Cullen had a sweet tooth that could put a man in hospital.

[Dorian Pavus, 17:14] _You’re no fun. I’ll try but no promises._ _You better hope Sera isn’t working today._

As an afterthought, Dorian sent another text then ducked into the underground so he didn’t have to agonise himself over waiting for a reply.

[Dorian Pavus, 17:16] _And I trumpet you too._

Cullen didn’t reply but that wasn’t uncharacteristic. The shop got more customers than Dorian had first predicted and even when there was no one occupying his attention, Cullen had a tendency to make work for himself, hands folding over each other when he wasn’t occupying them with something, _anything_. Dorian had, not so subtly, disapprovingly commentated on the dark circles around Cullen’s eyes, but Cullen shrugged him off and he supposed it was the pot calling the kettle black. He had a similar obsessive tendency with his own work when he hit a breakthrough, working late into the night in his office, chasing ideas as if they were able to run away from him.

And of course, who was he to Cullen to tell him to take a break? In the two weeks, Dorian had learnt a significant amount about the man, ranging from his weakness for sugary snacks to how he had a sense of humour, a dry wit that matched Dorian’s sharp tongue word for word, but was not overly generous with it. Yet Dorian couldn’t pretend that their bantering meant he really _knew_ Cullen. Their handful of meetings were a result of Dorian’s tendency to live routinely, slipping into a habit of visiting Cullen after work to check up on his broken rarity. If Cullen had turned out to be good company and Dorian had nothing better to do, certainly not go back to his empty apartment and mope until he could justify opening a bottle of wine on a weekday, then what of it?

And Cullen didn’t seem to mind. Or at least, he didn’t tell Dorian to not visit, though his texts remained unremarkable. His dog stealing his phone to send Dorian a random series of emojis was about as riveting as it got. Often Cullen simply neglected to reply when the conversation no longer served a purpose.

Which made flirting rather difficult.

“Hey, knobhead!”

 _So much for Sera not working today_. Almost on instinct, upon entering the coffee shop, Dorian ducked, just missing the dishcloth that had been lobbied at his head. He straightened up, adjusting his shirt, and scanned the place. Between the mismatched tables and chairs and the walls covered in posters that were an equally as random assortment, there were a few patrons (regulars, completely unmoved by the display) and of course, Fade’s employee of the month.

“Hello to you too, Sera,” Dorian said. He eyed the dishcloth she had thrown. “You can pick that up yourself.”

“Twat.” Sera glared at him, leaning on her mop. She was gangly and freckled and during the first few times Dorian had come to the shop, he had been unable to decide if she was a girl or a woman. There was a chaotic energy around her, from the fair bangs that she obviously hacked at herself and a fashion sense that consisted mostly of flannel and tops that had holes in them. She was by no means ugly but even if Dorian was inclined in that way, he had never seen someone look more like a lesbian if they tried. The feeling was mutual. The first time she had served Dorian, she’d taken one look at his styled hair and the fit of his jeans and said, in a bored tone, “Let me guess: iced coffee, right?”

He couldn’t even take offense. After all, she wasn’t wrong.

“How do you get any customers with such rude staff?” Dorian asked no one in particular.

“Easy,” Sera said. “Like this.” And then she made a farting noise with her mouth. Or at least Dorian hoped it was with her mouth.

Ignoring her, Dorian eyed the desserts on display. Behind the counter was Cole, a young man who had only served Dorian a handful of times but had an uncanny ability to guess the order before Dorian could get a word out, even when Dorian deliberately changed it.

Which wasn’t often. After all, Dorian was a creature of habit.

“Afternoon, Cole,” Dorian greeted.

Cole didn’t even blink. He was a pale, tired looking thing, who wore his work cap low on his eyes. “He is waiting for you. Always waiting. He is good at fixing things but not making thing. Can he make this a thing?”

Cole, Fade’s newest employee, also was probably a medium of some variety and Dorian never knew what the hell he was talking about. Including now.

Instead, he said, “Brilliant. Can I get extra ice?”

Cole set to making Dorian’s order and Dorian tapped a coin against the counter as he waited. _Always waiting_. He entertained the thought that maybe Cole was talking about him but it was short-lived. He was not a patient man, by any means, and the first time Cole had offered a vision in words, it had turned out to be a rather cryptic message about a late shipment of milk.

And if there was one thing Dorian was notoriously bad at, it was fixing things.

Perhaps Dorian was thinking too hard about Cole’s words and how to decode them because he didn’t hear Sera until she was by his ear. “Thinkin’ about your Curly-wurly?”

He started, leaning away but Sera was already sliding out of his personal space, cackling. Dorian recovered quickly. “My- excuse me?”

But not quick enough. Her grin widened. “You know. Your _boyfriend_.”

“I have a boyfriend?” Dorian blinked innocently. “You should have told me. I would have put my intense loneliness and lifelong fear of commitment down.”

She huffed at him, leaning all her weight on the handle of the mop. “No need to be smartass. We all know it.”

“All except me. What a surprising turn of events. Do enlighten me on the knowledge that I have been _so_ deprived from.”

She spoke in sing-song. “You _fancy_ Cullen.”

Dorian made the executive decision to pretend she hadn’t spoken. “Hang on a second. You call him Curly-wurly? How well do you know the man?”

“Well enough to know he’s got a real stick up his arse.” She grinned wickedly. “Do you pull it out for fun?”

“Surely you could have guessed that sticking it in is the fun part.”

“Ew.”

Dorian tutted. “Don’t pull that face, you’ll scare away the remaining customers, including me. And then where would this fine little establishment be?”

At that, Sera contorted her face as grotesquely as she could. He tried not to laugh. “Though you never answered my question. What did he ever do to you to warrant condiment filled doughnuts?”

Sera’s face sobered and she shrugged. “He’s just… you know. He’s wound up so tight, it’s fun watching him go off the rockers a bit. Loosen up. In the other way. Not your way.”

“Delightfully put.” He raised his eyebrows. “So you’re doing it to help him, in a roundabout way?”

It could have been the trick of the light in the coffee shop but Dorian could have sworn Sera was blushing. She scowled through it with dignity. “Help, shmelp. I want him to blow his top.”

“With that stick up his ass, you’d think he was a bottom.”

Sera pointed the tip of the mop handle under his nose threateningly. “I’ve ‘ad it with you.”

Dorian raised his palms in surrender. “Now, now. I’m not disagreeing with you. He _is_ very serious about his work. It would do him good to relax a little.”

Sera moved the handle side to side, as if attempting to hypnotise Dorian. Her grin, sharp as a knife, returned. “And I bet you know all sorts of ways to make that happen.”

“Okay, you need to make up your mind. Are you partaking in the dirty jokes at my expense or horrified by them? Pick one.”

“I think the stick up _your_ arse could use a pulling too.”

“Your way with words never fails to move me, Sera.” He spoke dryly. “And I’ll have you know that _I_ am most definitely a bottom and I have no complaints about anything being up my ass.”

Cole chose that very moment to return, with two cups, a pack of doughnuts and the words, “It hurts, just not as much. Defending, pretending, ending. It will go one day. The pain will leave an absence to be filled with better things.”

Unhelpfully, Sera said, “Not another stick, I’d hope.”

Dorian didn’t have the time or energy to attempt to decode another one of Cole’s messages from the spirit world. He pushed the handle in his face aside and dug out his wallet. Doughnuts tucked safely into his work bag, he placed the usual bill on the table and forwent telling them to keep the change. By now, they already knew the drill. He marched out of the shop with the cups in his hands and Sera calling, “tell him I said his hair looks bad today!” after him.

It wasn’t a far walk from Fade’s to the auto repair shop. The first time he had made his way, with an offering of coffee, Cullen had looked up from Dorian’s motorcycle and his glare had softened into surprise. Dorian had announced that he was just checking in and Cullen hadn’t asked any questions, instead gesturing at a pile of tyres for Dorian to use as a make-shift seat and returning to whatever he was doing to make Dorian’s bike less of a broken bulk of metal. After a short while of silence, Cullen started gruffly explaining, as if the information would make any sense to Dorian who had no tools in his apartment that weren’t for below average cooking. But Cullen was reaching out, as Dorian had with a coffee cup in hand, and it filled the silence.

From it, Dorian learnt that Cullen didn’t just fix motorbikes but he knew a good few things about them. It was a boyish interest and when he caught himself babbling over the one Dorian had dropped into his lap, he flushed a little. He had the most delightful little blush, down to his neck, maybe further. Dorian couldn’t _not_ tease him. He said, mildly, “Do you want me to leave you two alone?”

Even Lion barked a laugh, though it may have been a sneeze.

Dorian was as self-deprecating as he was flirtatious, a terrible habit that Bull often reprimanded him for. Cullen didn’t rebuff his teasing but he didn’t exactly encourage it. Had Bull not enlightened Dorian otherwise, Dorian would have gone on to assume the man was as straight as they come. But Dorian would be lying if that wasn’t what made Cullen so _interesting_ , an enigma to understand and a puzzle to piece together. He was reserved, choosing his few words carefully, but sometimes the stiffness in his shoulders would ease and he would make a quip so well executed that often, it wasn’t until Dorian would be laying in bed that night relaying the conversation over to himself that he would realise he had been _had_.

 _Curiosity killed the cat, Dorian_. Felix reminded him of his tendency to treat his interpersonal relationships like codes to crack and conversations like data. Dorian had told him that if that was the case then Cullen was simply another research project that Dorian would move on from. There was no cause for concern. The empty space in his life was meant to be filled with a motorcycle but the motorcycle’s mechanic would have to do.

Dorian had declared it, easily, lightly, but over the phone because he was avoiding seeing his best friend to avoid said best friend’s tendency to give good, reasonable but ultimately _unfun_ advice.

“I’m not worried about you seeing him as a project,” Felix had said. “I’m worried about when you don’t.”

Dorian ignored that part.

Through his nationally recognised researching abilities, he had come to learn that Cullen wasn’t one to seek out company but it seemed to gravitate towards him. He _knew_ people, not in the way Dorian or even Bull did, but his customers often asked about him like they knew him too. _Lion’s a big boy now, wow. I remember when he was a little runt. How’s your sister? Do you know when Varric’s back in town? Is Cassandra still doing classes?_ Cullen would answer the questions simply, never offering more information than necessary, but it was enough for Dorian to go back to the drawing board, to scrap his theory that Cullen was a loner with no one in his life but his dog. The days and nights when Dorian was told the shop was closed, Cullen had a life that Dorian pieced together from scraps. It bordered on frustrating.

Dorian knew that Order Auto Care was owned by Cullen, though he had yet to decipher how Cullen had come about it. A family business maybe? But Cullen’s family were elsewhere (though, he had assured one customer, Mia and her family were due for another visit.) Cullen’s finances were a mystery to Dorian but he didn’t look like a trust fund baby with a hobby – and Dorian knew one when he saw one.

No, the shop, however he managed to secure it, was important to Cullen. He _enjoyed_ cars, not quite like with a child-like obsession but a calm understanding. Maybe he liked the mechanics of taking things apart and putting them back together. Maybe it was what he was good at and he had rolled with it, as many adults did. Maybe Dorian was romanticising Cullen Rutherford but he was too handsome and rugged and unaware of his charms not to.

Dorian knew that Cullen was not entirely unaware when people were flirting with him but frowned like he couldn’t work out _why_. He also knew that Cullen had recently joined the trend of drinking flat whites and refused, of all things, to be embarrassed about this fact.

“What do you have against flat whites?” he had asked in the face of Dorian’s incredulousness.

Without thinking, Dorian had responded with, “I’ve dated too many.”

One thing Dorian didn’t know, however, was trapped in a single moment that reoccurred, like a loop in time, when Dorian would be about to leave the shop at the end of the evening and Cullen would stop him, sometimes with his name, sometimes without a word. They would look at each other, still, and emotions would pass through Cullen’s eyes like a show reel, too fast for Dorian to see, to comprehend or analyse.

But it would always stop on a kind of blankness, a shutter closing, and all it left in its place was another empty space. Unsaid questions, unsaid answers, unsaid words.

God, Dorian hated empty spaces.

When Dorian reached the shop five minutes later, he was met, as he always was, with a dog shaped bear. Lion’s enthusiasm, consisting of circling him and yapping, was most likely because he smelt food but Dorian still placed the cups on the nearest flat surface and squatted down to greet him with a thorough petting. Every time he did, it was not as hesitant as the last. “Don’t get too excited,” he told the dog sternly. “Doughnuts are terrible for dogs and humans alike but dogs especially.”

If Lion understood the gravity of his words, he gave no indication of it and continued to pant excitedly. Over the course of Dorian’s visits, the two of them had come to a truce, softened by petting and their mutual desire to please Cullen. Oftentimes, when Dorian didn’t realise he was staring at Cullen for too long, it was Lion’s knowing gaze that made him come back to himself, embarrassed to be caught gazing by a _dog_. He nudged Dorian now, his nose bumping against Dorian’s cheek to get his attention once more. Dorian shooed him away, gently and without maliciousness, and rose to his feet again.

He thought of Sera’s words. _You_ fancy _Cullen_.

He was talking with a customer beside a car that looked like it had seen better days. Today he was wearing jeans that Dorian just _knew_ Cullen hadn’t bought torn and a plain black tank-top that Dorian was _sure_ had been bought with arms. His hair was not as perfectly controlled, as if he’d spent the day running his hands through it. Dorian’s own hands twitched at the thought so he retrieved his iced coffee to give them something else to do. When Cullen noticed him, he gave him a small smile, barely a tilt of his lips, but it had been two days since they had seen each other last and Dorian liked to think his gaze lingered as the customer nattered on, catching on the shoulders of Dorian’s work blazer and the drink in his restless hands. When Cullen raised an eyebrow, as he often did when faced with a chatty customer, Dorian had to bite his lip to contain his laugh.

A juvenile way of putting it but he couldn’t say Sera had been wrong.

The customer hadn’t noticed Cullen’s distraction or Dorian’s appearance. Upon closer inspection, he was a handsome fellow, only a touch shorter than Cullen but a tad bulkier too. His skin was lightly tanned, contrasting with the strawberry blonde hair he kept pushed neatly back from his face. He wore jeans that slouched but a rather fashionable denim jacket over a pale T-shirt and dark boots and Dorian wondered if he was on his way to something special to meet someone special. His face, animated in conversation, was boyish and rosy-cheeked, despite the stubble peppering his defined jaw. Had they been in any place other than in the presence of Cullen, Dorian would have flirted with him without a second thought, though he was not quite able to get a read on him. Bull had been right. His gaydar was not as it used to be.

“Alistair,” Cullen said, interrupting the man’s rant (about someone called Morrigan who he was _one hundred fucking per cent certain_ had hexed him) in a patient tone. “Back to the car.”

“Oh, yeah.” Alistair’s smile was school boy guilty. “Like I said, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it but I was driving and, well, there go the tyres. And I thought, _jeez_. It’s gonna blow if I die driving ten down a straight road. Like I’d rather not die altogether, thanks, but if I had to go in this rust bucket, it could at least have been a car chase or something.”

Cullen snorted. “I don’t think your _rust bucket_ could survive a car chase.”

Alistair’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, I guess not. But that’s the point. To go up in flames and glory.”

Cullen ignored him. “Then what happened?”

“Half parked up on someone’s lawn just to check on the thing. Got out and took a look at it and I’m not car doctor but something doesn’t look right here.” He kicked the tyre nearest to him lightly. “Tell me you see it too.”

“I see it.” Cullen’s voice was mild but amused. “Have you made enemies in recent years, Alistair?”

“I should hope not.” Begrudgingly, he added, “I think it was Zev.”

“Zevran?” There was familiarity in Cullen’s tone and surprise. Dorian watched the conversation unfold, leaning back on a work table as he sipped his iced coffee. “Why would he slash your tyres? I thought you two were…”

Alistair had the most endearing blush Dorian had ever seen, second only to Cullen. The way Cullen trailed off, a little unsurely, obviously meant something. Alistair scuffed the toes of his boots as he spoke to the floor, like a child who was expecting a telling off. “We had a fight.”

“Of course.” Cullen squatted down near the tyre to inspect it and his jeans were tremendously tight around his thighs. Dorian took another long sip. “Not too serious, I hope?”

The sarcasm went right over Alistair’s head. “I don’t think so. Though Zev can hold a mean grudge and it _has_ been nearly a week. Oh, God. What if he doesn’t forgive me?”

The panic in Alistair’s voice made Cullen settle more comfortably on the floor and look up, concerned. They were a couple of feet apart but it was a dangerous angle, Cullen on his knees in front of a handsome stranger. Dorian wondered if he would be better off taking off the lid of his iced coffee and chugging it straight.

“What happened, Alistair?” Cullen’s voice was gentle enough for Dorian to feel somewhat guilty for the direction of his thoughts. He was being a good friend. _Mind out the gutter, Pavus_.

Alistair shifted on his feet. Lion, a perceptive creature, wandered over to him and Alistair held him gratefully as he spoke. “It’s just… Isabella was back in town. And you know how he gets with her.” Another name that sparked recognition in Cullen’s eyes. He nodded, encouraging Alistair to continue. “So we argued a little. Or maybe a little a lot. And at some point, I realised I was being a brat and I trusted Zev. I trusted him with my life. So I asked him to marry me.”

Cullen’s face slackened in surprise. Alistair grinned awkwardly. “I know, right? He had a knife in his hand – don’t worry, the kitchen kind, he was cutting peppers – and there was the living room sofa between us and he had his hair pulled back in this little bandana and I was only wearing a towel because I just got out of the shower but I didn’t think. I just _knew_ that I wanted him as a forever deal, you know?”

Dorian felt an acidic ache in his stomach where butterflies fluttered. The romantic notion was as sickening as it was sweet. It was not an uncommon feeling. Sometimes, for Dorian, _forever_ felt like candy, so sweet it poisoned.

Cullen was laughing, that laugh that was throaty and quiet but never mean. “You freaked him out?”

Alistair crossed his arms over his chest, huffing. “Don’t laugh. He thinks I was joking and- well, you know Zev. It’s not something to joke about.” His voice softened lovingly. “Not with him.”

Cullen was looking at him fondly. “You still haven’t told me why Zev might have wrecked your car wheels.”

“Oh.” Alistair grimaced. “He’s mad because he thinks I’m messing with him so he’s trying to make my life hell instead of, you know, talking about it.”

Cullen rose back to full height. “I’m guessing the wheels weren’t the start of it.”

“Oh, no. He also binned my cheese, put his pinkest underwear in the laundry with my work shirts and only talks to me in Spanish.” Cullen opened his mouth. Alistair corrected himself, “ _Rabid_ -fire Spanish.”

Despite the obvious plight of Alistair, Cullen’s concern was not heavy. He smiled, crossing the short distance to clap Alistair on the shoulder. It was a very masculine gesture. Lion danced between their legs, demanding attention. Cullen’s other hand soothed him, curling over Lion’s ears almost unconsciously. “Then you talk to him. Show him you’re serious. If you want forever, you can’t just quit it when it gets a little tough. Put some elbow grease into it, Theirin.”

Alistair visibly relaxed, laughing. The ache in Dorian’s stomach travelled upwards. He wondered if it was a cause for medical concern and if he may be dying.

Cullen gave the car a despairing glance. “You weren’t kidding about it being a rust bucket though. You’ve had this thing since you were, what? Early twenties? Isn’t it time to let it rest?”

“Ah, well. I can’t afford a new one.” When Cullen raised an eyebrow expectedly, Alistair smiled that sheepish smile that Dorian had come to recognise, through their entire exchange, as staple to the man’s character. He admitted, “After me and Zev fought, I went out to buy rings. To show him I’m being serious.”

“You asked him to marry you and you hadn’t even bought the rings yet?” Now Cullen sounded offended.

“Save it, Leliana already chewed me out about it.” Another name packed with significance. Cullen looked entertained by the prospect. “Anyway, long story short, I can’t afford a new car.”

“Can you even afford new tyres?” Cullen grumbled, bending down a little to inspect another. It gave Dorian a great view of his ass. He was out of iced coffee. “And are you sure it’ll survive another tune-up?”

“I don’t see why not.” Alistair slapped the roof of the car proudly. “This bad boy can fit so many breakdowns.”

Without thinking, Dorian said, “Him and I both.”

Alistair jumped. It seemed impossible for Dorian to not be noticed, lounging against a work table with a straw between his teeth, but Alistair blinked at him as if he wasn’t quite sure he was real.

Cullen straightened up again to gesture between them. “Alistair, meet Dorian. Dorian, Alistair. Dorian’s bike is in for repairs.”

Dorian waggled his fingers in a little wave and Alistair smiled, completely genuine. “Hi. You ride?”

For the second time in one day, Dorian was forced to say, “Something like that.”

Cullen didn’t call out his bluff, though he smirked a little. Dorian wished he had answered with something a little more creative. It would have been satisfying to see the looks on both their faces had he come out with a tasteful _not just motorcycles._

Then Alistair turned to Cullen and said, “Shit, was he booked in? You can change the wheels after. We’ve kept him waiting ages, right?” and his concern was sweet enough for Dorian to be glad he hadn’t said something somewhat unwarranted like _yeah, your dad._

“ _You’ve_ ,” Cullen corrected, “wasted more than his time, Alistair.”

“Yeah but I don’t care about you.” Alistair’s grin softened the blow of his words. “Fix his bike.”

“If only it were that easy,” Cullen said, more to himself than anyone else.

Alistair looked at Dorian quizzically and Dorian put him out of his misery. “It’s a bit of a long job, apparently. I just swing by to check on him. He gets lonely.”

Alistair kept blinking. “Who? Cullen?”

“The bike,” Cullen and Dorian answered simultaneously, Cullen through teeth and Dorian through laughter. Dorian added, “Cullen lets me hang around because I bring snacks.”

Alistair looked between them but seemed at loss at what to say. Finally, he directed his question at Cullen. “So you _can_ fix the wheels now?”

“Do I not have other jobs or commitments or a bed to go home to?” But Cullen’s tone was teasing.

“Ooh, ooh! I know the last one.” Alistair raised his hand like a kid in class, smiling smugly. “ _Nope_. You never sleep.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “You gonna help me or just stand here talking long enough for Zevran to think you’ve chickened out and taken a hike?”

Alistair paled. Dorian almost felt bad for the man. “You don’t think-”

Without a trace of doubt, Cullen said, “Not for all the gold in the world.”

Dorian watched them get to work, a pleasant sight, partly because Alistair had shucked off his jacket as he joined Cullen on the floor but mostly because they worked well together, not entirely in sync but comfortable, betraying that Alistair had some experience in either changing tyres or simply just working with Cullen. Lion found his usual spot to curl up and watch, ears relaxed but eyes always alert. There was a companionable silence until Alistair said, “What chickens hike?” and Cullen threatened to lobby a spanner at his head.

Dorian was happy just to watch them work until Cullen looked over suddenly. “Do you know how to change a tyre?”

He had the good graces to be embarrassed at his answer. “Can’t say I do.”

Cullen didn’t comment on that, simply gestured him over, and Dorian hoisted his bag off his shoulder and, after a brief hesitation, his jacket too. He hovered near Cullen until Cullen gestured for him to lower himself down next to the car. He did so warily, mindful of how his work shirt and slacks were not made for any labour that didn’t involve a computer screen.

“We’ve already done some of the heavy lifting and it was only two of his tyres but take a look. Car’s jacked though remember you gotta loosen the lug nuts” – Cullen tapped his finger on one – “before you put it in the air.”

“Loosen the nuts. I’m listening.”

Alistair snickered but Cullen was unmoved. He looked at him expectedly and Dorian realised that he wasn’t getting a demonstration. “You want me to- now?” He looked down at himself. “In my work clothes?”

“Bust tyres don’t wait until you’re dressed down,” Cullen said seriously but his lips twitched. “But if you don’t think you can do it-”

“I don’t think I can do it? I could loosen nuts all day.” He rolled up his sleeves to punctuate his point. Somewhere in the background, Alistair sounded like he was choking.

Cullen shook his head. “All you gotta do is take the lug nuts off. Yeah, just with your hands- no, it’s” – he leant over, catching Dorian’s hand in his own to direct his fingers the other way – “counter-clockwise.”

“Ah,” Dorian said, smartly. Cullen was close, his shoulder pressing against Dorian’s, even through Dorian’s shirt. He was always so warm.

And then the warmth was gone. Cullen moved back, taking the flat tyre with him. “Alistair, roll over that spare tyre, would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

They exchanged tyres. Cullen handed the new one to Dorian. “Now line it- yeah, that’s it.” If you asked Dorian, Cullen had no business saying those words in that kind of tone. “Now you put the lug nuts back on and tighten them as far as they go by hand. That should do it. Here.”

Dorian accepted the wrench. It was cold and heavy. “Now, just give ‘em another screw.”

“They come back.” Dorian spoke under his breath. “They always come back.”

Alistair laughed out loud.

Cullen ignored them both. “Not too tight. Just firm. Alistair, pull your weight and lower the car.”

“Hey!” Alistair protested, half-heartedly. “I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s exactly my point.”

They waited as Alistair set to loosening the jack, grumbling all the while, until the car was lowered fully.

“Now you gotta tighten them good- not a word.” Cullen’s voice was low in warning but this close, Dorian could see laughter in those warm, honey eyes. He had such pretty eyes.

Dorian set to work as an excuse to look away from Cullen.

“Put your back into it.”

He blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ve definitely heard that one before.”

“Dorian.” Dorian had come to know a fair few things about Cullen since meeting him but no discovery quite delighted him like the new ways Cullen said his name. And he said it often, like this, always exasperated, sometimes exhausted.

It was a crying shame he couldn’t hear it under more erotic circumstances instead of when he was wrestling a wrench to fix another man’s tyre.

He sighed melodramatically but did indeed put more force into it or as much as he was able. He was by no means weak or terribly unfit but gaining purchase with sweaty hands was most of the hard work. “All this talk of nuts and tightening and _screwing_ and you expect me not to make a song and dance about-”

He was cut off by his own surprise as Cullen wrapped his arms around him to once again cover Dorian’s hands with his own, head at Dorian’s shoulder and mouth at Dorian’s ear. “Behave.”

_Good God._

Dorian didn’t say a word. He wasn’t sure if he breathed. With every turn of the wrench, Dorian could feel Cullen’s arms flexing. He felt, when Cullen tilted his head a little in concentration, the scratch of stubble against the side of his face. It was the closest anyone had been to Dorian in a long time.

And yet as soon as Cullen moved back, Dorian shot up. Alistair was stood close by and did not disguise the fact that he had been staring at them with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Cullen didn’t look at him but it may have not been pointedly. Dorian couldn’t work out if the flush on his face is from the heat of the garage or something else. Whatever that something could possibly be.

Dorian hadn’t realised he was still gripping the wrench, tight enough for his knuckles to go pale, until Cullen took it from him, almost gently, coaxing his fingers open and taking. Dorian could only watch, much like Alistair, as Cullen returned to fixing up the tyres.

“Okay,” Alistair said suddenly, too loudly. He was blinking rapidly, like he had been when he first saw Dorian, as if seeing him for the first time. “Okay.”

But before Dorian could ask what those okays meant, he started speaking again, a little faster than he had before. He brushed by Dorian with a light shoulder bump that felt deliberate somehow and stationed himself by Cullen to chatter away, all about people that Dorian didn’t know and a life that Cullen led that felt as foreign as the language he described engine parts and motorcycle brands.

When Lion wound himself around Dorian’s legs, Dorian obliged him. His hand shook as he ran it over the dog’s neck and he stroked over the fawny coat until the tremors stopped, only half listening as the two men argued about prices and who owed who what and when.

“Okay, seriously,” Cullen was saying, mock-sternly, “get out. Don’t you have a boyfriend to appease?”

Dorian turned in time to catch Alistair’s grin turn dopey. Every emotion was plastered on his face for the world to see. He was undoubtedly the result of what would happen if a man and a golden retriever swapped bodies.

Before he left, he shook Dorian’s hand and had an extended goodbye with Lion, with more barking than coherent words. When he backed his car out of the garage, he rolled down he window to yell, “wish me luck!” before driving off, perhaps a little too carelessly for new tyres but Cullen only shook his head with a smile.

The garage felt too quiet in his absence. Dorian cleared his throat. “So friend of yours?”

“Alistair Theirin.” Another name that just _meant_ something. “We were roommates back in college.”

“Full of fond memories?”

When Cullen laughed, not too loudly, the tension eased a little. “A few. He was a slob and an idiot. Still is, if you couldn’t have guessed.” His sigh was fond. “There goes my evening.”

“You had plans?”

Cullen turned away to clear up some clutter. Like always, he needed to keep his hands busy. “I had work.” He spared Dorian a glance over his shoulder, smiling apologetically. “Sorry for wasting your evening too.”

“Not at all. It was nice to meet Alistair.”

“He’s a good kid.”

“Hopefully, he can reconcile with…” He waved a hand as if attempting to conjure the name from air, as if it wasn’t safely stored in his mind like all the information, small and big, he had accumulated from becoming background in the garage.

“Zevran. His boyfriend since college.”

Sometimes, the ache in his middle would creep up slowly, spreading like a virus. Sometimes, it simply felt like a kick in the chest. “Ah. They’ve come far, I presume?”

Cullen looked faraway for a moment. “More than you can possibly imagine.”

Lion was still at Dorian’s feet and he circled him once more. He was getting better and better at sensing Dorian’s discomfort. He whined until Dorian gave him a hearty ruffle. “You only want me when I’m coming or going.”

“You’re going?” Cullen asked. He didn’t look surprised, so much as unsure.

“I should.” After a moment, Dorian added, “I have some work to be doing myself.”

“Of course.”

Dorian didn’t know what that meant. He retrieved his bag, put on his blazer and dodged Lion with half-expert grace. He wondered if his antics were because he didn’t want Dorian to leave or if he simply wanted to see Dorian fall flat on his backside again. It was hard to tell with the dog.

Like dog, like owner.

And like clockwork, Dorian was turning away when Cullen spoke again. “Dorian?”

“Yes?” He sounded hopefully and wanted to kick himself because Felix had been right. Dorian had always been rubbish at separating his work from his heart. Even the silliest projects had to produce a result to make him feel worthy. It was a matter of pride. It always had been.

Cullen looked at him, like he always did. Undecipherable. And then he said, almost tiredly, “Get home safe.”

Dorian left like he always did. He walked to the metro and rode it with his head tilted back. He thought about the work he should have done this evening but he couldn’t find it in him to mourn lost time when he thought of Alistair and if the rings fixed anything. Not even when the ache made him lower his head between his knees.

When he emerged above ground, his phone notified him of a text.

[Cullen Rutherford, 19:46] _Did you steal my doughnuts?_

Despite himself, Dorian smiled.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait but hey have a chapter that had to be split at an awkward spot because it once again got too dang long (so sorry if the ending feels a lil abrupt)  
> warning for some nsfw in the first scene  
> and yeah hope you enjoy/let me know what you think/come talk to me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/reaperapologist) or hmu on [tumblr](http://www.akingdomorthis.tumblr.com) if you're about that life

It was a terrible idea, perhaps the worst Dorian had ever had. And he had an extensive history of bad ideas.

He’d prepared all the necessary material for tomorrow’s seminars, had cooked himself a meal that involved vegetables and even cleared his emails (his father’s emails went straight to the junk folder.) He had washed his sheets, put on a new set and then had a bath that eased the sore muscles of his back – Vivienne had warned him that if he didn’t sit upright at his desk, this would happen – and surrounded him in the fragrance of cedarwood and sweet orange. He even cleaned up his face, neatening his moustache and shaving around it. He had forgone underwear in favour of drinking wine, propped up in bed in nothing but a short silk nightgown like a tragically beautiful widow of a wealthy but aging patriarch.

Or simply a man overcompensating for a booty call who probably didn’t deserve all this effort.

The reality was neither here nor there. Instead, Dorian was on his laptop. After worrying his lip between his teeth, he opened his browser then reloaded it in incognito mode. He felt ridiculous.

He downed what remained of his glass and set it aside. He ran a hand through his hair which he had allowed to dry naturally and it curled at its ends. He entered something flagrant into his search bar and dragged a hand over his face.

He felt positively foolish.

If anyone asked, Dorian always pretended that he hadn’t been in a dry spell for a considerable amount of time now. But no one ever asked, either too self-conscious to or they were a heavily scarred and burly overgrown man who fixed people’s brains for a living and didn’t need to ask. Either way, he justified the behaviour as a natural course of action, part of the recovery process that only concerned him and his own right hand. Surely not taking his self-destructive behaviours out into the world was a form of character development. Everyone should be thankful he was engaging in a relatively healthy coping mechanism for _once_ in his life.

One video was lovingly titled ‘Handsome Hunk Gets Nailed By Beefy Stud’s Hot Rod.’

So maybe the problem wasn’t that going on Porn Hub made him feel like a teenage boy trying to navigate the changes his body was going through. Desire was hardly an uncommon feeling to Dorian. But it had manifested, over the last few months, in poorly timed one-night stands, often getting too drunk to do anything more than fall asleep on any suitors, if they even got far enough to make it to a bed, or on Bull who rejected his fair share of advances because _you’re drunk, Dorian, go the fuck to sleep_. In retrospect, Dorian was glad that the worst thing to happen to him was mere embarrassment at his own actions but he never felt guilty about _wanting_ sex. He’d had his years of shame and he had long outgrown them, thankfully.

No, the problem here was that he had passed the stage of uncontained insatiability into staring down the results of searching gay porn dedicated to the fantasy of fucking a mechanic.

In Dorian’s defence, he hadn’t intended to narrow his search down to something so specific. He had opened his laptop with the entirely noble intention of _not_ thinking about Cullen Rutherford. He was to fix the _entirely_ random desire pooling low in his stomach without thinking about Cullen or his hands or his thighs or the way his stubble had felt against Dorian’s face.

Except not thinking about the way Cullen had pitched _behave_ low into Dorian’s ear was easier said than done. Dorian had been ignoring Felix’s texts and whilst being asked to stay late by Vivienne would be something he would later be thankful for because it meant he wasn’t making a fool of himself in front of Cullen in this state, he had come home irritable and naturally, _lonely_.

So he had changed his sheets because he knew his mess alone wouldn’t be enough to make it a waste of time and now he was staring, in a transfixed and vague sense of horror, at a video in which a ‘Sexy Twink Gets An Oil And Fix By Hot Mechanic.’ He wondered briefly if his standards had gone up since he’d last indulged in watching porn. Couldn’t they consider investing in a quality filter?

Or maybe he was simply looking for something that wasn’t there, a real man that he had a hesitant but budding friendship with in the caricature of mechanics in porn he really was too bloody old for.

He stopped the video when the Hot Mechanic had the Sexy Twink, sufficiently oiled, spread across the bonnet of a car (that was probably not broken) with a gruff “I’ll fix you right up” because _of course he would_. He closed the browser and tossed his laptop aside, settling back on his pillows with a huff.

Not entirely unmoved from the video, his cock laid across his thigh, just a touch too stiff to ignore. He stared down at it accusingly and said, out loud, “This is your fault.”

Then he wrapped a hand around himself.

Because Dorian thought of himself above a lot of things but one of them wasn’t a quick wank so he could pretend it wouldn’t leave him feeling cold and empty. He’d had a long day.

He circled through his usual fantasies, of the curve of muscles and the sharpness of a smile. He tried to paint a picture of nameless men that would fuck him into the mattress then leave without wanting breakfast or God forbid, a _conversation_. One after the other, they became hybrids of men he knew, men he respected and men he had loved. He banished them away, ghosts of the past that circled his bed until he closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to face them, hand stilling.

In the darkness of the privacy of his own head, he saw one stubborn man.

 _If you can’t beat them, join them_.

Instead of a pornographic fantasy taking place in the repair shop, Dorian envisioned him here, kneeling between his spread legs, his golden hair hand-mussed and the weight of his eyes, darkened by desire, pinned Dorian against the bed. His fingertips, rough from callouses but light in their touch, would part his nightgown with an almost comical delicacy. His touch would be teasing, like the delight in the corner of his eyes and the pleased tilt of his lips. When his fingers brushed the soft skin inside Dorian’s thighs, Dorian would shudder. He shuddered.

Eyes still closed, his legs parted further, as if to accommodate another body as a pair of warm hands wrapped around his own. Up and down the length of Dorian’s cock slowly, so damn _slow_ , pumping him to full hardness. Dorian arched up, desperate, only for thick forearms to press down on his hips. He made a noise in his throat as he thought of soft, rough laughter and warm breath hitting his cock. The head was wet under his thumb.

Dorian groaned, partly because it was too easy to imagine Cullen’s mouth wrapped around his cock but mostly because he was so hard at the thought of his new friend sucking him off that tears welled at the corner of his eyelids. He didn’t open them, refusing to let the image escape him, and was forced to feel around his bedside table for the lube. His wine glass hit the carpeted floor with a dull thud.

Hand wrapped now slick around himself, he saw Cullen with startling clarity. He saw the way the scar on Cullen’s upper lip would stretch as he took the head of Dorian’s dick into his mouth, the way his cheeks would hallow and how he would _look_ , look right back up at Dorian with that inquisitive gaze. He would watch Dorian’s reactions carefully and move accordingly, licking and sucking the length of Dorian into his mouth until his nose pressed into the neatly trimmed hair at his groin, nuzzling it. Of _course_ he would.

That thought should have made Dorian stop or at least stutter but Dorian only dug the balls of his feet harder against his mattress, only picked up the speed he fucked into his own hand. The wetness was cool but Cullen’s mouth would be warm, even when it was unforgiving. He would suck him with the same intensity that he gave anything that occupied his focus, like anything but victory was a loss he couldn’t fathom. Cullen came to conquer and Dorian would let him.

But, as Dorian gasped into his pillow, he couldn’t contain the man, not even in his thoughts. Cullen would pull off messily, colour high in his cheeks. The fantasy became something achingly human. Awkward and a little embarrassed, Cullen would be bashfully, stupidly happy about his lover’s pleasure. It was even easier to envision him ducking his head to hide that expression, like he did at compliments. He would cover it by pressing a kiss to Dorian’s hipbone. When he lifted his gaze, it would be flushed and sweet. And _oh_ , wasn’t that a terrible thought?

Dorian didn’t cry out his name, couldn’t breathe at the realisation. When he came, he opened his eyes but not before his mind conjured the image of his cum staining Cullen’s face, droplets glinting off his parted lips, not before Dorian could imagine taking it into his hands and kissing the man, uncaring of the taste of himself on Cullen’s mouth.

Dorian laid there, sweat drenched, his gown slipping further off his shoulders with every heave of his chest. It had been a terrible idea because even if Dorian had found a porn star with striking physical likeness, it wouldn’t be Cullen. It would be a short-lived immersion on a thin thread because it was hard to imagine Cullen fucking in any other way except focused and self-conscious and earnest. It would snap easily because even in his own fantasies, where Dorian was _so_ desperate to lack sentiment, Dorian knew Cullen, knew that he had a careful touch like he knew what his hands were capable of.

It had been a terrible idea because it was one thing to imagine fucking your friend, it was another to want to kiss them after. It was the worst idea he ever had because Dorian didn’t just feel cold and empty. He felt guilty and he was alone.

*

“Hard rubbers.”

Cullen stilled where he was leaning over to tinker with something on the motorcycle. He raised his eyes to look over at Dorian, who stared back at him from his position, part way horizontal, across a pile of tyres, one leg crossed over the other. The makeshift seat had appeared during one of Dorian’s visits. The tyres were large, larger than standard car tyres, and mismatched but clean. He had sat, hesitantly at first, as if afraid he would fall down the middle like a rabbit hole only to realise, upon close inspection, it was more like an immovable Russian doll. Tyres within tyres, carefully constructed. Cullen had stools, tucked under an elevated surface that he would refer to, with a touch of self-deprecation in his smile, as his desk. But Dorian had preferred the tyre throne because the first time he had sat down on it, Cullen hadn’t turned away fast enough for Dorian to miss how pleased he looked. Dorian had to bite his tongue more than once so he wouldn’t ask if Cullen had made it himself because otherwise, he risked shattering the illusion that it was _specially_ for him.

Now, Cullen raised an eyebrow at him. Dorian added, as a significant afterthought, “Eight letters.”

Cullen looked, like he always did. Roughly handsome. He had a timetable but it was a mystery to Dorian so he never knew what to expect. Some days Dorian would find him rolled under a car and Lion would bark at Dorian’s arrival, as if to warn them both to prevent an accident like the first time. On those days, Cullen would be wearing his uniform of coveralls and his voice would be muffled in conversation.

But more often than not, Dorian would arrive to the sight of Cullen in jeans and a t-shirt or a flannel shirt that looked like something Sera would wear or _God forbid_ a vest, sat frowning at paperwork. He would only stop to pet Lion or greet Dorian, acknowledging him with a smile that made Dorian think that it really didn’t matter what Cullen wore.

Nothing, of course, was also good.

Today he wore a white t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders and looked like the cleanest thing Cullen owned. His jeans were already grease stained. Dorian had made a noise in protest when Cullen had started fiddling with his bike so Cullen had fetched an apron.

And Dorian may have preferred Cullen without clothes altogether but he certainly had no complaints when he had, almost shyly, asked Dorian if he could tie the apron, hands helpless and expression embarrassed. He had laughed breathily when Dorian had knotted the ties. “I guess I should cut down on the doughnuts. I’ve, uh, gained some weight around my middle.”

Dorian let his hands linger at Cullen’s waist, at the bulk there that he had been struck with the urge to _squeeze_. Instead, he moved a hand upward to pat his shoulder, once, friendly, and stepped back. “And make Sera find another purpose in life outside tormenting you? Perish the thought.”

Cullen had turned to look at him. “No, I suppose not,” he said, voice amused but eyes soft, “I wouldn’t want to put Sera out of a job.”

At that moment, Dorian made the executive decision to buy an extra doughnut next time.

“Eight letters?” Cullen echoed, returning to fiddling with the motorcycle.

Dorian hummed in confirmation. He twirled his pen over his fingers and watched Cullen work, the only indication that he was thinking about anything other than the vehicle under his hands was in the furrow of his eyebrows. Whatever he was doing was another mystery to Dorian, despite the fact that upon every visit that coincided with Cullen working on it, Cullen would explain the process resolutely. Dorian would listen, politely, before saying something like, “My good man, I have not the faintest clue what you just said,” and Cullen would smile in laughter, shrug and say, “I still think you should know.”

There was something hopelessly endearing about it.

Some moments passed, enough to make Dorian eye the other clues. Then, suddenly, Cullen straightened up and said, “Ebonites.”

“What?”

“Ebonites,” Cullen repeated. “It’s a non-resilient rubber, formed by vulcanizing natural rubber.”

“Not to be confused, of course, with _Ebionites_ ,” Dorian said, “the patristic term for a Jewish Christian movement from the early centuries of the Christian Era. How do you spell that again?”

Cullen spelled it out and Dorian fitted it into the squares of his crossword puzzle.

It wasn’t always a crossword. Sometimes Dorian would read reports or mark papers. On one occasion, he wrote out a grocery list and had added a treat for Lion. It was an excuse to do something with his hands and his eyes because it was too easy to stare, too easy to touch. Dorian was a tactile person, raised on kissing cheeks and pointed touches which he had carried into adulthood, into friendships and seductions alike. And it had carried into whatever his relationship was with his _mechanic_.

Whatever it was. That was precisely the problem. Because what was a friendly touch between friends? Except friends didn’t linger and friends certainly didn’t jack off at the thought of the other – unless the definition of friendship had changed in recent years and Dorian really was getting old.

He was still pointedly ignoring Felix’s texts, had managed to avoid Haven and thus, Bull by spending his early evenings with Cullen and letting Lion tire him out enough for him to close his eyes on the metro home. He knew it was temporary, that Felix would get a call in, Bull would get a hold of him or hell, Maevaris would fly back for the sole purpose of levelling him with a look that would force Dorian to admit something, _anything_.

And Dorian really didn’t want to call this infatuation a _crush_. He was a grown man and grown men didn’t get _crushes_. Instead, grown men stopped themselves from touching their friends and instead went home and touched themselves to the thought of said friends.

Bad ideas. Dorian was full of them. He had come to the awkward conclusion that he needed to look beyond cliché porn and take matters not into his own hands but the capable hands of someone else. Hands that weren’t big and grease covered but often surprisingly gentle, when they wrote or petted the dog or touched Dorian’s elbow to direct him or-

It wasn’t that Dorian was a stranger to fucking his feelings away but he was never this notoriously bad at it. He could only use Bull as an excuse to avoid Haven for so long. No, the problem wasn’t just that Dorian found Cullen attractive. It was just that it was very hard to find someone else to distract him when all he wanted to do was, give or take an activity, complete crosswords to the setting sun beside Cullen Rutherford himself.

He couldn’t exactly stamp down on this infatuation easily when the object of it was in his direct line of sight, in a T-shirt that was worn in more ways than one, stretching pale and translucent. So Dorian could do nothing except sit on his hands, even when the chain of the necklace Cullen always wore slipped out to dangle as Cullen leant down. Whatever hung off it was trapped under the neckline of his shirt, a shape Dorian couldn’t quite make out. He wondered if it was a cross. He spoke, stupidly, without thinking, “Are you religious?”

Cullen looked up, squinting. Dorian was raised well enough to feel embarrassed at his brash tone. He moved to sit up, pushing himself to stand. “Ah, sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“I believe in God,” Cullen answered, interrupting simply, “but that’s not the question, is it?”

Dorian raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t it?”

“Is this what your” – Cullen gestured vaguely – “teaching is about?”

Just as Dorian couldn’t follow Cullen’s explanations of his mechanic work, Cullen listened to Dorian talk about his work, complain about walls and enthuse about breakthroughs, but didn’t offer any further insight. Dorian had assumed that he simply didn’t care.

“Not nearly as exciting, I’m afraid.” Dorian moved to stand against a counter closer to Cullen, his ankles and arms crossed. “My research interests are on how the humanities were once mandatory, no matter what profession you go into. They were foundational. It’s a very academic pursuit. There’s no room for God in the classroom.”

“So you believe in Him?”

Dorian had been the one to broach the topic so he had no right to feel uncomfortable now. He made a non-committal sound. “I come from a… political family. So on paper, yes. In reality, God only made an appearance when you had something to gain or something to lose. Though, of course, in politics, that’s everything.”

Cullen watched him speak without interruption. He was a good listener, too good. Dorian’s words fell out of his mouth. “My mother came from a pious family but my father wasn’t- or at least, he hadn’t been in my childhood.”

“And yet they married still?”

Dorian couldn’t help but laugh. “My friend, it was hardly the first of their differences – but yes, they married still. It was arranged. As most marriages are in the north.”

Cullen opened his mouth then closed it. Dorian knew the question that he hid between his lips. Instead, he said, “This is the first time you’ve talked about… where you’re from.”

Dorian forced himself to exercise the tension in his shoulders. “What’s there to say? Terrible place. Poor political landscape but fantastic food.”

Cullen was not swayed by the diversion. “It’s just you never mention your family.”

“Well, you’re not as forthcoming about yours either,” Dorian countered defensively.

“You want to know if they’re religious?” Cullen sounded disbelieving.

“I want to know if religion is a tool, powerful but a tool nonetheless, everywhere or if my homeland is simply capable of making a weapon out of anything.”

“That’s a… harsh way of looking at it.”

Dorian considered the hesitation in Cullen’s words. Stubbornly, he wanted to explain himself. “My father- he was an intellectual, scoffing at the idea that success could be bargained with from any god. But he was smart enough to know the people he wanted to govern. And perhaps it was old age that made him revisit and rethink his faith. It was he who sewed the seed of philosophy in my mind. A belief that man could be greater, perfect even, without any god. Imagine my surprise when he one day simply… changed his mind.”

He watched as Cullen licked his lips. It was terrible timing. “You talk in the past.”

Dorian laughed again, a single, sarcastic note. “He’s not dead so don’t pity me. It would have saved us both a great deal of trouble had he been but no.” He shook his head to dispel the thought and that specific line of conversation. He pointed at Cullen in a needlessly comical fashion and said, “You never answered my question. Or at least, you answered it terribly.”

Cullen smiled, either not noticing or was happy to ignore Dorian’s deflection. “My parents are far from pious but religion was a regular part of our routine, in a small town church, everybody knows the pastor sort of way. But my parents never cared if we didn’t say Grace so much as if we wasted food, you know?”

“I don’t,” Dorian admitted, more honestly than he had said anything in his life if he was being truthful to even himself. “I bet you were taught that God loved you, no matter what.”

Cullen squinted again. It was more a look of confusion than it was suspicion. “Well, yes. God as lover and giver.”

“A novel concept.”

The conversation was barely in his control. He knew by now how words hung in the air and yet he had spoken his father into the open and now his presence occupied their conversation, an uninvited, unwanted visitor. It was hard to imagine him in between the folds of Cullen’s shop, however, and Dorian grasped at that, at something to tether him to this reality, one that Halward Pavus had not touched. Lion, ever observant, trotted over to butt his head against the hand Dorian didn’t clutch his pen with and there was nothing quite as warming as the affection in a dog’s licks, even if Dorian claimed to hate them.

Cullen watched the exchange with something akin to slightly smug pride. Dorian felt the urge to take his slobber-swathed hand and wipe it against his shirt in retaliation because for all of Dorian’s suspicions of Cullen’s overly-large dog, he had proven Cullen right by falling for the mutt all the same. He was a warm and comforting creature and Dorian was not above admitting, at least to himself, that he needed some warmth and comfort.

But he still had a _no touching_ rule so he just said, thoughtfully, mouth curling, “So weekly church? Did you sing?”

That knocked the smirk off Cullen’s face but tilted the world back into balance. His father’s presence dispersed, unwilling to watch Cullen flush like a school boy. “Growing up, yes. A little.”

Dorian’s grin widened. “Of course you did. I can just imagine you as the golden-haired choir boy. Which one was your favourite?”

Cullen gave him a flat look. “It was a long time ago. I haven’t been to church since my niece’s Christening.”

“And why is that?”

“Didn’t feel right.” He shrugged mildly. “Not everyone is fortunate enough to go to a church that won’t turn them away.”

Dorian blinked. “That is… a noble cause.”

“Hardly.” Cullen looked uncomfortable at Dorian’s words. He focused instead on doing something unnecessary with the motorcycle. Dorian, if nothing else, had come to learn when Cullen was genuinely working or when he was simply making a crossword out of mechanic parts. “I’m not staging protest, by any means. It’s just at some point, you realise you can’t be within something and not be… corrupted by it. Even just a little. So faith just became a more personal matter.”

“Interesting, then, that our outlook on organised religion is not so different then,” Dorian observed, voice quiet. “We were both driven away, in some way, by the corruption of the institution.”

They didn’t speak for a moment. Then Cullen stopped fidgeting and just stared down at his hands. When he spoke, he sounded the words like he was chewing them for taste. “It can be comforting sometimes, I think. I’m not saying this to convince you to a more righteous path or anything of the sort. But it’s nice to know you’ll never be alone.”

When he looked up at Dorian again, Dorian realised he had been wrong to think the world spun on a steady axis, with or without the words of his father as weights in the air. It shifted again and Dorian wondered if the world intended to throw him into Cullen or away.

He stood his ground and smiled without teeth. “And if that’s all you want? To be left alone?”

If Cullen had an answer in his sad, honeyed eyes, Dorian was not destined to hear it. The world kept spinning, a silhouette appeared at the garage entrance and maybe the undead ghost of his father would never stop haunting him because Dorian had half expected the figure to be Lord Pavus himself.

But then Cullen said, surprised but not unhappy, “Josie?” and Dorian blinked. The outline softened, curving where Dorian had feared sharpness, coming into view.

A woman walked towards them with shoulders back and hands laced in front of her, a poised if not confident walk that Dorian recognised as the result of upper class upbringing, not unlike his own stroll. Yet where Dorian walked with leisure (a habit he had yet to break, even years away from the privileges of his home), she walked with calculated purpose, as if she yet had something to gain whereas Dorian had been taught that _he_ was everything.

Whatever she was doing looking for everything in a small repair shop, she also brought a presence of lightness, a graceful, almost _bounce_ to every step. Her dark hair was pinned up, revealing an elegant neck, with the exception of a few curls that parted on an alarmingly pretty face. Her cheekbones were pronounced but otherwise, she was by no means a harsh sight. Rather, there was something glossy about her features, her soft mouth and her dark skin, not too much darker than Dorian’s own, contrasting lovingly against her summer dress. It was like staring at a magazine cover.

Her expression, instead of bred arrogance, was mild but polite and sweetly elegant. When Lion trotted over to her, she bent at the knee to greet him in a musical, accented voice. She was, quite frankly, the most beautiful woman Dorian had ever seen.

“Cullen,” she said in response, petting Lion before straightening up to greet the dog’s owner. “Sorry to drop by unannounced.”

“Never a problem,” Cullen said as he wiped his hands on the front of his apron. “You know you’re welcome to drop by any time. Your car running alright still?”

“Cassandra has barely let it run at all.”

Cullen smiled wryly, an inside joke. “With good reason.”

“Oh, stop, I’m not that bad.” She paused with calculated ease. “Speaking of Cassandra, I hear you’ve been avoiding her calls.”

Cullen’s smile dropped. “Ah, well-”

Dorian watched with a sense of wonder because Cullen was honest to God _stammering_. There was pink high in his cheeks. It was a good look.

Dorian was grinning until Josephine turned to him and blinked, as if she was seeing him for the first time, before she smiled brightly. “And you must be Dorian! It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Josephine Montilyet.” When they shook hands, hers was slim and she squeezed Dorian’s fingers. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Cullen made a noise, caught between protest and pain. “Josie-”

“Cullen has mentioned me?” Dorian eyed him, sly and more than a little pleased. He inclined his head towards Josephine. “Do go on.”

Josephine smiled innocently but there was a spark of mischief in her eye. “You’re even handsomer in person.”

Dorian decided he liked her.

Cullen lifted his head from massaging his temples, interrupting Dorian’s response. “Is there a reason you’re here, Josephine?”

The use of her full name did not go amiss. Josephine’s smile sobered into that mild expression once again, diplomatic and practiced. They were, undoubtably, good friends that knew how to navigate around each other. “Cassandra was worried you had forgotten that we’re having our fortnightly catch up since you, like I said, haven’t been responding to her messages. I volunteered to come check on you.”

Cullen sighed, shifting on his feet like a child reprimanded. “You didn’t need to do that. I’ve just been busy.”

“I wanted to.” Josephine’s voice was both gentle yet immovable. “And I want you to join us tonight.”

“It’s not a lie. I have work. Dorian’s motorcycle-”

Dorian scoffed. “Oh, no. You’re not pinning this one on me. My motorcycle can wait.” Cullen glared at him, betrayed, but he simply waved a dismissive hand. “Go drink with your friends.”

“Of which,” Josephine added smoothly, “we can count Dorian. If you’d like to join us, of course.”

Cullen gaped at Josephine. Dorian almost fell over where he lounged. Josephine waited patiently for his response which was nothing more than a strained, “I- uh, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Josephine looked positively offended by Dorian’s words. “Nonsense! Cassandra and Leliana have been pestering Cullen about meeting you too so we would be thrilled to have you at our table. Wouldn’t we, Cullen?”

Cullen avoided her elbow and mumbled, more to himself than anyone else, “I haven’t even agreed.”

It sounded, from what little Dorian could gather, that Cullen was in the habit to overwork himself at the expense of his friendships. It could perhaps explain why, over the weeks he had been visiting the man, why Cullen had never asked him for drinks or anything more than to bring back lunch from Fade’s (which they never agreed on how to split.) Josephine’s forwardness was unfamiliar to the repair shop but not unwelcome. Dorian’s surprise only spoke of how long he had been in Cullen’s presence, that being direct could surprise _him_ , of all people.

He really was out of practice.

Dorian cleared his throat and tried to regain some resemblance of balance. “Well, if that’s how Cullen is going to be, I’d be happy to take his place.” He winked at Josephine. “I do love a girl’s night.”

Josephine laughed, a sound as lovely as everything else about her. Cullen, however, was _pouting_. A truly amazing sight. Dorian stifled laughter, raising his palms in defence. “What? I do!”

Cullen shook his head, muttering something else that just about managed to escape Dorian, then said, clearly, “Listen, Josie, I appreciate the gesture. I really do. But even if I wanted to, I can’t just drop everything and go out with you. Look, I even have Lion.”

Hearing his name, the dog raised his head and barked. They all gazed back at Lion, momentarily enraptured by the creature. Then Josephine said, “I’m sure Jim would be happy to look after him.”

“Jim has a life outside of caring for my dog, Josie.”

Dorian couldn’t help himself. “You really know someone called Jim?”

“He’s a college student that lives in the basement of Cullen’s apartment block.”

“He watches Lion sometimes,” Cullen added.

“And,” Josephine continued, serious, “we have good reason to believe he’s also very much in love with Cullen.”

Cullen was blushing and stammering again. Dorian wondered if this was commonplace with Cullen’s friends or if there were a select few.

He joined in. He had to. Cheerily, he said, “Well, he clearly has Lion’s blessing. Should we expect a spring wedding?”

Josephine laughed again. Cullen groaned, squatting down to stare despairingly at Lion who merely panted back at him with a mouth that always looked like it was smiling.

Maybe Dorian was too soft on the dog (and owner) because he spoke a peace offering. “I know a dog-friendly place, if that would ease your mind?”

“I suppose it would,” Cullen conceded, a little miserably.

Dorian almost felt bad about forcing Cullen’s hand until Cullen looked up at him, expectant, and Dorian could think of little else except the effort it took to form words in his mouth. Fantasies always did little justice. _So that’s how he looks down there-_

“Haven,” he said, too loudly. “It’s on the other side of town, mind, and I don’t want you to think I’m hijacking your gathering and-”

He broke off, suddenly. The realisation made him feel cold and then warm. Cullen was still looking up at him, hands buried in the fur of his dog but eyes watching Dorian with the sort of merciless intensity that felt like revenge. Dorian saw, too clearly, the twitch of Cullen’s lips.

“Not at all.” Josephine was smiling encouragingly at him.

“And?” Cullen’s prompt was gentle, too gentle to be anything but teasing, knowing.

But Dorian owed Josephine an answer. “It’s, ah, a gay bar.” Dorian frowned at his own words. “Or more so a gay-friendly bar really. I feel as though that should be clarified up front at the very least.”

Josephine’s smile didn’t waver. She fished into her bag and dug out her phone. “What’s the address? I’ll text my girlfriend to meet us there.” And then she winked.

Laughing almost breathlessly, Dorian told her the address. Only seconds passed and Josephine received word that Cassandra and Leliana would find their way there. When she turned to Cullen expectedly, Dorian bit his smile down.

Cullen rose to his feet and looked between them for an indecipherable moment.

Then, with a resigned roll of his eyes, he said, “Alright.”

Josephine clapped her hands together triumphantly, looking delightfully young. Cullen only sighed as she wound her arm through his. And the guilt that Dorian had felt robbing Cullen of his excuses was replaced instead with the one that told him he didn’t deserve the look of fondness Cullen gave him over Josephine’s head. It curled in his stomach, between the ever-present tendrils of desire, tangling with what he wanted and shouldn’t have.

Because Dorian could smile all he wanted at the strange, unlikely but lovely friendship he had formed with Cullen but he couldn’t avoid the fact of the matter, not when he called himself a scholar.

Dorian wasn’t going to be able to fuck his feelings away unless he fucked Cullen himself.


End file.
